


Wicked Game

by expectingtofly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (mentions of John being a dick), Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Angst, Bandits & Outlaws, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bottom Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel and Jimmy are NOT related, Cowboy Castiel, Dean/Cas Big Bang 2020 (Supernatural), Dubious Consent, Emotionally Repressed Dean Winchester, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Fluff, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, From Sex to Love, Hate to Love, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Outlaw Castiel (Supernatural), Outlaw Dean Winchester, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Sex, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Villain Character Death, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 104,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26797354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expectingtofly/pseuds/expectingtofly
Summary: The year is 1889 and for the past year and a half, Dean has traveled alone from town to town, drinking to ignore his guilt and gambling to make a living. Today, he’s especially down on his luck. He’s broke, was just thrown out of a saloon for cheating at poker, and has now been woken by a blue-eyed man trying to rob him. When he learns that the thief, Castiel, is just as broke as he is, they strike a tenuous deal to help each other rob a stagecoach, share the spoils, and split up. Turns out splitting up is the most difficult task.While Castiel is cold and cruel, Dean refuses to back down from a fight. The two are at odds more often than not, but their relationship only grows more complicated the longer they travel together. They may have more in common than they thought.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester/Other(s), Mentioned Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester - Relationship, Mentioned Ruby/Sam Winchester - Relationship, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past Castiel Milton/Jimmy Novak, past Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester - Relationship
Comments: 139
Kudos: 211
Collections: DCBB 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Tough Luck

**Author's Note:**

> so this was my first dcbb ever, and it was _such_ a great experience. thanks to all the mods for putting so much work into making this challenge run smoothly :)
> 
> another big thanks to [JerkBitchCombo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JerkBitchCombo/pseuds/JerkBitchCombo) and [contemplative pancakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/contemplativepancakes) for giving so much of their time in helping me work through this plot and editing my words. i appreciate you two so much.
> 
> and last but not least, [princessjimmynovak](https://princessjimmynovak.tumblr.com/) created the most incredible artwork for this story!!! I'm still not over the two beautiful pieces and the promo banner, nor will I ever be. the fact that I get to see scenes from my fic in art form blows my mind—and they look so good?!?! rest assured that at any given moment I am staring with heart eyes at sammy's artwork <3 (you can see the art in chapters 1 and 19, but go check out the [official artpost](https://princessjimmynovak.tumblr.com/post/633252835882041344/i-love-a-good-au-so-i-jumped-at-the-chance-to) and send your love there as well!!)
> 
> in short, this fic is the result of 5 long months of writing and editing and collaboration, and I had so so much fun with it. hope you enjoy :)
> 
> (and here's a [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aid2vMbCNP8&list=PLjc3wphLX9c2t9Nou35NFMxETvSeBOLSM&ab_channel=ChrisIsaak-Topic) I created with songs that inspired me in writing this fic)

__

_What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way_

_What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you_

_What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way_

_What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you_

_No, I don't wanna fall in love_

_(this world is only gonna break your heart)_

_with you_

_Wicked Game - Chris Isaak_

•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•

“Get the fuck outta here!” 

Dean landed in the dirt, his right shoulder hitting the ground hard. He looked up at the saloon and saw the bartender who’d thrown him out standing on the porch, backlit from the warm glow inside, hands on his hips.

“Get lost!” the man yelled and stomped back into the saloon, the doors swaying shut behind him. 

Dean pushed himself to his feet. “Fuck you!” he yelled at the swinging doors. He spat dirt and stooped to grab his hat where it lay in the street in a block of light from the saloon’s windows. 

“Shit!” he swore, slapping dirt off his hat. Casting a disdainful look at the saloon and flipping off the people watching out the windows, he trudged to his horse, Dusty, at the saloon’s hitching post. And he’d been doing so well tonight, slowly amassing more money from poker games until he’d been accused—rightfully so—of cheating. Now he had nothing to show for a night of hustling people, except for a bruised shoulder and one more saloon to add to his list of, “not welcome here.” 

Mounting, he guided Dusty out of the piss-poor excuse for a town—a saloon, boarding house, and general store in various states of disrepair. Onto the next town where, hopefully, he’d have more luck. He was flat-out broke. Seemed he was always wavering between being penniless and just well-off enough for a few drinks and a meal. 

Rolling his bruised shoulder, he settled in the saddle. The hilly, dry ground was lit by a clear sky and a nearly full moon. He’d get a few miles distance from town, 'case anyone was looking for revenge, then settle down for a couple hours’ sleep. Or maybe he’d ride most of the night. He didn’t mind riding at this time—preferred it, really, to traveling in the heat of the day. And there was something about the coolness, the stillness, that calmed his head. ‘Course, it didn’t do much to distract him from his empty stomach. He _had_ planned on using his winnings to get a room at the boarding house in town and a proper meal in the morning, but those plans were spoiled now. 

To appease his stomach, he rummaged through his saddlebags, trying to find his flask. His fingers brushed worn leather and he pulled out a pouch that held too many pages, letters he’d received over the years. A dull ache settled in his chest at the thought of the sloping scripts and the tight, neat handwritings, and he hastily stuffed the pouch back into his pack.

Finding his flask, he weighed it in his hand. Worryingly light.

“Fuck,” he muttered. Always down on his luck. 

The sky was lightening at the horizon, black expanse turned cloudy dark blue, when Dean finally roused himself from his thoughtless stupor and stopped to rest. He unsaddled Dusty, tied her to a tree, laid out his bedroll, and fell asleep in an instant.

He might’ve slept past high noon if he wasn’t woken with a start a short time later by Dusty’s neighing and the crunch of footsteps on dirt. Before he was even fully awake, he’d bolted up and pointed the Colt he always kept close in the direction of the footsteps. 

"Who's there?" he yelled, blinking in the low rays of the sun. Someone was crouched by his saddlebags, dropped carelessly earlier when he’d bedded down. The intruder leapt to his feet, a hand going to his hip, and Dean fired. 

His bullet found its mark and the man tumbled to the ground with a yell. Dean stumbled to his feet, but another gunshot caught him by surprise. A sharp sting across his arm made him realize the thief had also fired at him. 

Sparing a look at his arm, Dean aimed at the thief. “I’ll shoot you again!” 

“I’ll shoot you first,” the thief yelled from where he’d fallen on the ground. Blood stained his right pant leg and he lay on his back, aiming a gun at Dean.

Dean hesitated for half a second, then fired and ducked. His bullet struck dirt to the left of the thief as he’d planned, and the thief’s bullet whistled harmlessly over his head. 

The echo of the gunshots still rang in the air as Dean tackled the man and wrenched his gun away, swearing at the scalding hot barrel. The thief grabbed at his shirt, but Dean scrambled to his feet before he could be dragged down.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, kicking aside the thief's gun and training his Colt on him again. He registered bright, sharp, blue eyes before the thief lunged forward, hitting his legs and sending him to the ground. 

“Fuck!” Dean yelled as he grappled with the man. He caught an elbow to the nose and blinked against the stinging pain. Swinging his gun up, he hit the thief across the jaw.

The thief fell back heavily with a grunt, and Dean pushed him off to get to his feet. “Don’t you dare fuckin move,” he panted, once again aiming at him. He took a step back in case the motherfucker decided to pull another stunt like tackling him again. 

The thief blinked up at him, a dazed look in his eyes. He dropped his head back on the ground, and Dean saw the stain of blood covering his pant leg had widened. 

“You tryin to steal from me?” he asked.

The blue-eyed thief remained silent, staring up at the sky. His dark hair was mussed and dusty, and a thin cut from where Dean had struck him ran across his cheek through the dark stubble covering his jaw. 

Dean wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand and glanced at Dusty. She was still tied to the tree, the dirt kicked up under her hooves from when she’d startled at the commotion. Another horse stood by her, presumably the thief’s. No saddle, only a folded blanket, frayed reins, and a bridle.

“You must be mighty desperate,” Dean said, keeping an eye on Blue Eyes as he grabbed a coil of rope tied to his saddle on the ground. He stroked Dusty’s flank to calm her before walking back over to the man. “Well, jokes on you, buddy. I'm stone broke.” He motioned with his gun. “Sit up.” 

The thief raised his head slightly and glared at Dean, but didn’t move. Dean grabbed his collar and pulled him up to sit. “Who are you?” he asked, tying the man’s hands behind his back. “Were you following me?” He didn’t recognize Blue Eyes from the saloon last night, and Dean didn’t think he would’ve forgotten his face. 

Blue Eyes didn’t answer and Dean rolled his eyes. He just couldn’t catch a break, could he? He wiped more blood from his nose and unbuckled the thief’s gun belt, tossing it aside. Blue Eyes let out a noise of protest but didn’t speak as Dean searched him brusquely for more weapons. 

“Can’t let you keep this,” Dean said, holding up a bowie knife tucked in one of the man’s boots. He studied the handle and blade and clicked his tongue. “Pretty nice blade, think I’ll keep this.” 

“Fuck you,” Blue Eyes spat, the first words he’d spoken since their fight. 

“Oh, finally, he speaks." Standing, Dean spotted a threadbare gunny sack tied to the man’s horse and grabbed it. “Here we go,” he said, rummaging through it and finding a small, clinking pouch with a few coins.

He counted them in his hand. Four bits. “Better than nothin, I suppose,” he said, glancing at the thief. Blue Eyes glared at him, his faded gingham shirt gaping at the collar and blood staining the dirt under his wounded leg.

Dean threw the coin pouch into his own saddlebags and looked up at the sky. A couple hours still before noon. The next town couldn’t be more than two, three hours away. He eyed the thief. “You wanted ‘round these parts? There a reward for your capture?” 

The scowl still hadn’t left Blue Eyes’ face. “I’m not telling you anything.”

Dean shrugged. “Fine. I’ll take you into town and find out for myself.”

He saddled Dusty and untied her from the tree. His adrenaline fading, the burning sensation on his upper arm now became more prominent. He looked at his arm to see his sleeve now had a frayed hole below his shoulder. A small line of blood trickled down to his wrist from where Blue Eyes’ bullet had grazed him.

“Fuck you," he swore, "this is my favorite shirt.” A grin twitched the corner of Blue Eyes’ mouth. “Think that’s funny, do you? You won’t be laughin when I haul your ass to the sheriff.” 

He went to Blue Eyes to drag him to his feet, then remembered he’d shot him in the leg. Sighing, he crouched down to look at the wound. 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Blue Eyes snapped.

Dean threw up his hands. “Fine, have it your way. Bleed out.” He tied the reins of Blue Eyes' horse to his saddle and led the horses to where Blue Eyes sat. 

“I'm not going anywhere with you,” the man said, sitting up straighter, his eyes fierce. 

“What, you gonna run away?” Dean picked up Blue Eyes’ hat from the ground and shoved it on his head, making him flinch. “Get on your fuckin horse.” 

Grabbing his arm, he hauled Blue Eyes to his feet. The thief let out a hiss of pain before setting his jaw. He mounted his horse clumsily with Dean’s help, a grimace flashing across his face, then Dean tied a rope from the his bound hands to the bridle.

“You try anythin, I'll shoot you again.” After putting the thief’s gun and possessions in his own saddlebags, he mounted Dusty. With a look back at the thief, he started riding. 

_Please be a famous outlaw,_ he silently begged. He could use a good-sized handout right about now. 

The land became hillier and more densely populated with trees as they rode. Dean kept glancing back at the thief, but the fight seemed taken out of him. He sat slouched on his saddle blanket, head down so Dean couldn’t see his eyes under his hat brim. 

“Hey, Blue Eyes,” Dean called, and the thief tilted his head up just enough to glower at him. “You got a name?” 

“Go fuck yourself.” 

“Alright, then,” Dean muttered. 

After about an hour, he paused at a river to fill his canteen and take a drink. Blue Eyes shifted in his seat, and Dean could see his pant leg was wet with blood, deep red staining his boot now. 

“You still wanna bleed out?” he asked. Blue Eyes looked at him and seemed ready to retort, but he didn’t speak. “Thought so.” Taking the only shirt from Blue Eyes’ bag, Dean proceeded to rip a strip from its hem. 

“You couldn’t use one of your own shirts?” Blue Eyes griped. 

“You shot a hole in mine, reckon it’s only fair.” Dean cut the man’s lower pant leg away to expose the wound on his shin, not bothering to be gentle as he pulled the red-stained fabric from the gash.

Blue Eyes flinched and Dean said, “It’s just a flesh wound, the bullet’s not in here. Only a little deeper than what you did to me.” 

“I should’ve aimed for your heart.” Blue Eyes’ voice was low, gravelly, and as hostile as the look he aimed at Dean.

“Yeah, guess so.” Unscrewing his canteen, Dean poured water over the wound and Blue Eyes swore. “Grow a pair,” Dean said, glancing up at him. He could tell by the set of his jaw that Blue Eyes was gritting his teeth, but he didn’t flinch or speak again as Dean wound the makeshift bandaging around his leg. 

“Alright, you’re set.” He started walking away to Dusty and Blue Eyes spoke up, 

“We don’t need to get the law involved. We can settle this like two men.” 

“Oh, really? Where was this code of conduct when you were robbin me blind as I slept?” Dean shook his head and mounted Dusty. “Nope, you picked the wrong day to mess with me, buddy. I’m not gonna let you go off with a warnin.” 

“Then we’ll duel.” 

Dean snorted and snapped his reins. Dusty started walking. “You ain’t in no position to bargain. You’re the one tied up, sittin pretty, so looks to me like you’ll have to do as I say.” 

Blue Eyes swore at him and Dean shook his head, smiling a little. At least he could take satisfaction in the fact that, if he was having a shitty day, Blue Eyes’ was worse. 

•◊•◊•◊•

“Whaddya mean you don’t want him?” 

The sheriff of the town Dean and Blue Eyes had just reached jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the cells in the jail. “I got every cell filled with drunks and thieves and whores. I don’t got room for another petty thief.” 

“You sure he’s a nobody?” Dean scanned the curling, yellow wanted posters behind the sheriff’s desk, keeping a tight grip on Blue Eyes’ collar. None of the sketches looked anything like the surly thief he’d captured. 

“Sorry, sonny, but there’s thieves a million to one out here. I ain’t taking him. Best I can do is issue a fine and kick him out of town.” 

_And then he’ll chase me down_ , Dean thought. “Guess I’ll figure somethin else out then,” he said. “Lot of fuckin help you are.”

Pulling Blue Eyes out the door, he paused outside on the boardwalk, trying to decide what to do next. He could knock Blue Eyes out and dump him behind the jail, hightail it out of town and hope he didn’t catch up. He could always shoot him in the other leg. That would slow him down. 

“So, where’s that big reward you were talking about?” Blue Eyes asked. 

“Shuddup.” A stagecoach had parked in front of the post office next door and the driver was opening the passenger door. 

“Leaving tomorrow at seven sharp,” he announced. A young, pretty blonde in fine clothing emerged and glanced at Dean. She smiled at him and he nodded in greeting. Behind her, a man with a grey-flecked beard and a bowler hat stepped out of the coach with a cane that gleamed in the sun. 

“Special delivery,” a man said, coming out of the post office holding a small package wrapped in brown paper. The driver took it from him. “Needs to get there fast.”

“You gonna let me go now?” Blue Eyes asked, snapping Dean’s attention back to his current situation. 

“No.” Dean hauled him down the porch steps, Blue Eyes letting out a string of curses in protest. “I’m gonna get a drink while I figure out what to do with you.” He couldn’t deal with this sober. 

Holding onto Blue Eyes’ arm, he led him across the street to the saloon. When he pushed their way through the swinging doors, however, he was immediately met with a rebuke. 

“Nope, get the hell out of here!” The bartender walked forward, motioning at them, and Dean paused, trying to remember if this was one of the saloons on his not-welcome list. He didn’t remember ever being here before. Then he realized the bartender was glaring at Blue Eyes. 

“You know this fucker?” he asked the bartender. 

“Know him? I told him and the gang he was riding with to get lost the last time they were here. Started a fight and nearly tore up my whole damn establishment.” 

“Gang?” Dean glanced at Blue Eyes. “And here I thought you were just a petty thief.” He looked back at the bartender. “This bastard tried to rob me earlier. I brought him to the sheriff and he wouldn’t take him.” 

The bartender snorted. “Figures.” Dean took a hesitant step forward and the bartender sighed and nodded. “Fine. Long as he stays tied up.” 

“He ain’t goin anywhere.” Dean shoved Blue Eyes towards the bar and dug into the pouch he’d pilfered from him. “One whiskey. Drink’s on him.” He grinned at Blue Eyes, but the thief was looking around the room as if plotting his escape. Dean tapped his Colt in his gun belt as a warning. Blue Eyes glared at him but didn’t move from the bar. 

The bartender set a glass down in front of Dean and filled it. “So, you’re still alive,” he said to Blue Eyes. “Shame.” 

“What’s this about a gang?” Dean asked, draining the glass and motioning for the bartender to fill it back up. God, he’d needed a drink. On the ride into town, he’d emptied his flask—something he’d have to remedy quickly. 

The bartender pointed at Blue Eyes. “Few months ago, he and a few others passed through. Stayed a few days. Just a bunch of ragtag no-gooders. I heard they all got caught and hung last month after robbing some bank, but guess not.” He glared at Blue Eyes. 

“I never seen you a day before in my life,” Blue Eyes said, matching the glare. 

Refilling Dean's glass, the bartender shrugged. “Likely story. I’m just glad to see you finally got caught. It’s what you deserve anyway.” 

“You wanna take him off my hands?” Dean asked. 

The bartender laughed. “No way in hell.” He started to move down the bar and Dean asked, 

“What’s the bastard’s name?” He glanced at Blue Eyes. “He won’t tell me.” 

“Castiel.” 

The bartender went to grab another patron’s order, and Dean studied Castiel, unable to help a grin. “Well, well, well. Castiel. Strange name, no wonder you didn’t want to share it. That true, about the gang, the robbery?” 

Castiel turned his scowl from the bartender to Dean. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. You can’t prove shit.” 

“How’d you get out of hangin?” 

Pressing his mouth into a thin line, Castiel looked away. Dean shook his head. So, Castiel _was_ more than just a lousy thief. Still wasn’t notorious enough to warrant his own wanted poster, though, so that didn’t do Dean any good. 

He looked in Castiel’s pouch again, confirming that there were only two bits left. That wasn’t going to buy him much. He was tempted to keep drinking, but he needed food. In all the activity of the morning, he’d nearly forgotten his hunger. Now the pangs in his stomach were rivaling the ache in his shoulder from last night’s scuffle and the burn from Castiel’s bullet. 

He noticed the way Castiel was leaning on the bar, favoring his right leg, but chose to ignore it. He scanned the room. It was mostly empty—two men sitting at a table talking low, another standing at the far end of the bar. One empty green-felted table in the back. No chance of hustling anybody today. Besides, he still had to figure out what to do with this fuming outlaw he had on his hands. He could almost feel Castiel’s anger radiating off him.

An idea was forming in his mind. A desperate one for sure, but an idea all the same. 

Stepping away from the bar, he grabbed Castiel’s arm. “Let’s talk.” 

He led Castiel out of the bar and into the adjacent alleyway. “Seems like you need money,” he said, letting go of Castiel’s arm. “So do I. I think we’re in a position to help each other.” 

Castiel scoffed. “Tell you what. You let me go and I won’t kill you. How’s that for helping each other out?” He smiled a cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

Dean shrugged. “Sure, but then what? You go off and try to rob someone else? You’re a pretty shitty thief.” Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “Course, seems like you’ve been fairly lucky at not gettin caught until now. And maybe if you had the right help…” He glanced at the street to make sure no one could hear what he was going to say next. “That coach that’s leavin tomorrow, you help me rob it and we’ll call it even. We split what we steal 60/40—because you owe me—and then we go our separate ways.” 

Castiel stared him down. “You wanna rob a coach,” he said flatly. 

“I want enough money for a meal, a bed, and a whore. You don’t wanna help, fine. But I don’t trust you. I’m gonna shoot you in the knee and make sure you can’t come after me.” 

“Looks like I don’t have much of a choice, then.” 

“That’s the spirit.” Dean grabbed Castiel’s arm and tugged him to the street. “Now you’re gonna pay for my meal.” 

•◊•◊•◊•

No surprise, Dean didn’t have enough money left over to afford a meal from the second-rate restaurant in town. He begrudgingly settled on buying a can of beans and a pack of hardtack at the general store, and haggling to fill his flask at the saloon. A few casual questions to the general store owner revealed where the coach was headed the next day and on what trail. 

After riding a few miles out of town, he and Castiel set up camp. Well, Dean tied the horses and started a fire while Castiel just sat there with his hands still bound together, tracking Dean's movements with glowering eyes.

The sun had begun to dip behind the hills by the time the beans began to simmer in their pot. Stirring the thick sludge, Dean glanced at Castiel sitting moodily across from the fire. He was starting to think that frown was a permanent feature on the outlaw’s face.

He tried to convince himself that choosing to keep around a thief who’d threatened to kill him wasn’t the worst idea he’d ever had. It said a lot about him, he reckoned, that though it was indeed a horrible idea, it certainly didn’t take first place. 

Castiel had been silent, besides the occasional swearing, since agreeing to Dean’s plan. The cloth around his wounded leg had a red blossom in the middle of it, and his shirt stuck to his broad chest in a way that kept drawing Dean’s eyes. He couldn’t deny this outlaw was an attractive man—whether that had influenced his decision to keep Castiel around, he wouldn’t say.

“You gonna untie me?” Castiel asked, looking up at Dean and catching him staring. Even in the dusky light, his eyes were still striking—cold blue and steady so Dean didn’t doubt he’d meant what he said about wishing he’d shot Dean through the heart. What about that threatening gaze was attractive, Dean didn’t know, but he felt drawn in anyway. 

“You know what,” he said, pushing those thoughts away, “you’ve been behavin real well since I trussed you up so I think I’ll keep it that way, if you don’t mind.” He lifted the pot lid again and stirred the dark, mushy beans inside. His stomach grumbled at the smell. It was, what? Two days since he’d last eaten? Much too long. 

“You gonna unbuckle my pants so I can take a piss then?” Castiel asked. Dean met his eyes. As tempting as that offer was, he grabbed his knife and stood. 

“We have an agreement, right?” he asked, approaching Castiel. “Neither of us has to get hurt—well, more hurt—if we help each other.” 

“Fine,” Castiel said, meeting his eyes. Dean didn’t know whether to take his unflinching gaze as a threat or agreement, but he’d gotten himself into this mess. No backing out now. 

He cut the ropes, and Castiel rolled his shoulders and rubbed the angry red burns on his wrists. He stood gingerly, keeping his right leg light off the ground. When he started walking away, Dean cautioned, “Not too far.” 

Castiel turned on him and Dean took a step back, raising his knife in warning. “Let’s get one thing straight,” Castiel snapped. “I’m not your little bitch. I may be helping you rob a coach tomorrow but only because I want to, because your sorry ass didn’t have anything worth stealing.” 

“Alright,” Dean said. “Whatever you tell yourself.” Shooting him a look, Castiel limped off. 

Sitting back down by the fire, Dean watched him disappear behind a few trees, trying to reassure himself that Castiel couldn’t get very far on his injured leg anyway. 

Sure enough, Castiel returned a few minutes later and sat back down. Another glance in the pot told Dean the beans weren’t ready and he swore under his breath, sitting back. He dug the point of his knife into the dirt, the only noises the crackling of the fire and the shuffling of the horses. 

“One thing I can’t figure out,” he said. “If you robbed that bank and didn’t hang, what happened to the money? Why’re you as broke as I am?” He looked up at Castiel, who was staring into the fire. 

“Spent it all on booze and whores.” His eyes flitted up to Dean’s, challenging him to ask any more questions. 

Whether his reply was a lie or not, Dean wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t going to press the topic. He shrugged. “Reckon there’s worse ways to spend it.” 

When the food was adequately cooked, they ate in silence. Castiel ate fast, shoveling his food down, and Dean thought, _there’s two of us that were starving._

Stars were lighting the sky by the time they scraped the plot clean. Dean rolled out his bedding and glanced at Castiel. “I’m gonna have to tie you up again."

“Like hell you are,” Castiel said, taking a drink of the coffee that Dean had made. The irony that Dean was sharing his food with someone who’d tried to rob him earlier wasn’t lost on him. “What happened to our agreement?” 

“I don’t trust you—” 

“Don’t see how I’m gonna help you rob a coach if you don’t trust me.” 

Dean grabbed the rope. “Sit at that tree.” Castiel didn’t budge and Dean nudged his leg with his boot. “You don’t trust me either. You’d do the same in my shoes.” 

“Fuck you,” Castiel said, getting to his feet. “You son of a whore, fuck your bitch mother—” 

Dean smacked him hard on the back of his head with the coil of rope and Castiel turned on him, surprisingly quick for pivoting on his wounded leg. Just as fast, Dean brought his hand to his gun. “Don’t try it,” he warned. 

Castiel stared him down, then sat at the base of the slender tree, keeping up a steady stream of curses as Dean yanked his arms back around the tree, securing him in place more tightly than he needed to. 

“Sweet dreams,” Dean said, avoiding the kick Castiel aimed at him with his good leg. 

Settling down on his bedroll, he made a show of placing his gun in its familiar spot under the coat he’d rolled up as a pillow. The fire glowed in the dark, illuminating Castiel’s face enough to show he was still shooting a deathly glare at Dean. 

_I’ve changed my mind,_ Dean thought. _This_ is _my worst idea yet._ He took a long pull from his flask, then laid down and tried to sleep to no avail, tossing and turning as the night grew longer. He heard Castiel shift and tensed—waiting for what, he didn’t know, since he’d made sure Castiel was tied securely and didn’t have any weapons on him.

When it grew silent again, Dean relaxed, but only slightly. He wasn’t getting much sleep tonight, that was for sure. Even the fact Castiel was tied to a tree right now didn’t reassure him after seeing the murderous look in the man’s eyes. 

He felt for his gun and touched the cool metal, then rolled over onto his back and stared at the starry sky.

Though it felt as if he’d only blinked, he must have dozed off sometime in the night because suddenly he opened his eyes to a dark blue sky, stars fading as their backdrop lightened. 

_Well, I’m not dead yet,_ was his first thought. Sitting up, he saw Castiel still tied to the tree, his head hanging down over his chest. 

Kicking on his boots, Dean stood. He grabbed the coffee pot and purposefully set the lid down hard with a clang. Castiel startled, then slowly raised his head. He moved his arms, or tried to, and swore. 

“Mornin sunshine,” Dean greeted him. “How’d you sleep? I slept wonderfully.” 

“Fuck you.” Castiel shifted his legs and grimaced. His hair was even more mussed now, sweaty strands pressed to his forehead. He looked up, catching Dean watching him, and his blue eyes narrowed. “You gonna untie me or not?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean walked over and freed him. Castiel rubbed the feeling back into his wrists, and Dean asked, “Your leg gonna be alright?” It looked like the bleeding had stopped—'least the shirt he’d tied around Castiel’s leg wasn’t any bloodier than the night before. 

“Like you give a shit.” Castiel stood, bracing himself on the tree, and looked up at the sky. “We gonna rob that coach or not?” 

So, Castiel was invested in this robbery. He was more desperate than Dean had thought. 

“Yes, we are,” Dean said. “Let’s get moving.” 

They rode out along the trail that the coach would travel on in a few hours. The horizon was tinged orange as they crested a hill and entered a patch of trees that grew more densely packed the longer they rode. 

Castiel pulled up at a bend in the trail where the ground sloped leisurely downwards. “We can wait here for the coach.” 

Dean looked around. “Right, we’ll meet the coach when it comes ‘round the bend. I’ll guard the driver while you rob the passengers.” He dug into his saddlebags and pulled out Castiel’s gun belt. “Don’t make me regret this," he cautioned before handing it over.

"And my knife?" Castiel pressed, buckling the belt over his hips.

Dean rolled his eyes, but retrieved Castiel's knife from his bag and handed it over. 

Castiel tucked it into his bag and studied the trail. “I’ll stop the coach,” he said, like Dean hadn’t just laid out the plan. “You come up from the rear so we can surround it.” 

“Hold on, you don’t have a say here—” Dean started. 

Fierce, blue eyes turned on him. “And since when were you put in charge?” 

“Since you tried to rob me.” 

Castiel nudged his horse off the trail into the trees. “You asked for my help, remember? I make the calls.” He pointed over Dean’s shoulder. “You wait over there, in those trees.” 

Dean started to protest, but Castiel was already riding away. _Fuck you,_ he thought vehemently. He briefly considered threatening Castiel with violence, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t end well.

So, he rode to where Castiel had indicated. Dismounting, he looked up at the sky. Weak sunlight filtered through the trees. The coach would arrive soon. But for all he knew, Castiel had given him the slip—was riding off right now, laughing his ass off at Dean's expense. 

“Fuck,” Dean muttered and kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot. 

Time passed slowly. Dean preoccupied himself with checking his gun, walking furrows into the grass, checking his gun again, listening for any sounds of the coach’s approach, and debating going back to where he’d left Castiel to see if the bastard had stuck around or not. He wasn’t sure he should risk robbing the coach alone; he wasn’t that desperate, not yet.

Finally, putting an end to his repetitive thoughts, he caught the faint sound of wheels crunching over dirt and horse hooves stamping the ground. 

Rising from where he’d seated himself on a log, he looked out at the trail. The trees weren’t thick enough to hide him from view, but with luck, the driver would think he was just a traveler stopped to rest and wouldn’t suspect anything. 

He waited until the coach passed, the driver staring straight ahead, the coach windows covered with dusty curtains. Then he untied his bandana from around his neck and retied it below his eyes, hopefully obscuring his identity, and swung himself onto Dusty.

The coach rounded the bend and Dean half expected to hear it continue unhindered, but then he heard Castiel call, “Stop right there,” and the coach ground to a halt. 

_So the fucker_ didn’t _abandon me_ , Dean thought, riding up behind the coach. Ahead, Castiel sat on his horse in the middle of the road, aiming his gun at the driver. His eyes were hardly visible over the red bandana hiding his face, shadowed by the brim of his hat.

The driver had his hand on his hip and Dean called, “I wouldn’t try anything if I were you.” 

The driver's neck could've snapped, he turned so fast. Scowling at the gun Dean was pointing at him, he raised his hands. 

At a nod from Castiel, Dean dismounted and went to the coach. Opening the door elicited a shriek from the young woman inside, the blonde gal he’d seen in town. She was dabbing at her mouth with a handkerchief while the older gentleman from town sat close to her, fumbling to close the fly on his pants.

Dean cocked an eyebrow and the young woman reddened. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said and motioned with his gun. “Hand over any money you’ve got.”

“Please don’t hurt us,” begged the older gentleman, reaching inside his pocket.

“Woah, woah, slow,” Dean warned and the man held his hands up, “You got any weapons on you?”

The man shook his head furiously, then slowly withdrew a purse from his coat and handed it over. “Your watch,” Dean said, spotting the chain running into his vest pocket.

The man started to stammer protests and Castiel called from outside, “Better do as he says.”

Startling, the man quickly pulled out the watch and gave it to Dean. Dean held it up to show Castiel who was still seated on his horse, guarding the driver.

Castiel nodded and Dean turned back to the blonde. “Ma’m?” Her face pale, she retrieved a small coin purse from a satchel at her feet.

“This can’t be all,” Dean said, taking it and weighing it in his hand. “Clothes like that, I’d think you’d be travelin with a little more.”

She shook her head, her blonde curls swaying about her face. “No sir, I don’t—” Her words cut off with a gasp as Dean aimed his gun at her head and cocked it. 

“Would be a shame to have to ruin such a pretty face, but I’ll do it.” 

Slowly, with shaking hands, the blonde unpinned a few bills from inside her skirt waistband. Dean took the warm bills with a grin. “Thank you kindly,” he said and slammed the coach door shut. 

“Now, that package you got from the post office,” Castiel said to the driver as Dean walked over to the front of the coach. 

“Don’t know what yer talkin ‘bout.” 

“Don’t play stupid,” Dean said. “Special delivery, figure it’s gotta be somethin worth our time.” 

Glaring, the driver reached under his seat and pulled out a burlap sack. He let it drop to the ground with a thud and Dean started for it. 

“No,” Castiel said. He motioned with his gun at the driver. “Get down here and open it up.” 

“I ain’t—” 

Castiel fired and Dean flinched. A shrill shriek sounded from inside the coach. 

A bullet had lodged itself in the wooden bench seat a few inches from the driver’s shoulder, who now cowered. “Now,” Castiel ordered. 

With a curse, the driver dropped down from his elevated seat and pulled a package out of the bag. He unwrapped the brown paper, revealing a small, wooden box with a glass-covered hole on one side and a screw on the top. 

“The fuck is that?” Dean asked.

“Some newfangled camera, I suspect,” the driver said. 

Dean swore under his breath. Looking at Castiel, he caught the glower in his eyes. 

“Not what you scoundrels expected?” the driver asked, looking up at them with dark amusement.

In response, Castiel shot him. Dean startled at the report and the driver dropped to the ground, blood seeping out of a hole in his head. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Castel said, holstering his gun. 

“A fucking camera?” Dean asked, avoiding the puddle of blood from the driver’s head while grabbing the box. "No jewelry, no money, no nothin?" He stared at the camera, then threw it to the ground, swearing. “Didn’t know we were gonna kill anyone,” he added, glancing at the driver. 

“You thought we were gonna let him go? Let him race back to town and report us?” 

“Alright, alright." 

Castiel dismounted and went to the coach’s horses. He began untethering them and Dean saw the blonde peek her head out the window, her eyes widening before she ducked back inside. “What about them?” he asked, nodding at the coach. 

“I’m sure someone will come along eventually.” Castiel slapped one of the horse’s rumps, trying to send it away from the coach. “Or they can walk.” He fired his gun in the air and the horses startled and fled down the trail. “Let’s go.” 

They raced away from the coach, riding until they were several miles away. Of course Castiel had killed the driver; Dean should’ve expected that. Not that he really minded. The driver had been an annoying sonuvabitch who was asking for it. He was just glad Castiel hadn’t tried killing the passengers since he didn't want three dead bodies on his hands, and they were innocent enough. Seemed Castiel had some moral compass, at least. 

After gaining enough distance from the coach, they stopped at a trickling river to let their horses rest. Dean dismounted and deposited their spoils on the ground. “Let’s see what we got here."

Castiel sat heavily next to him, avoiding putting pressure on his leg, and together they counted the money. The blonde had been carrying the most money, and Dean whistled, counting the coins. 

“Not bad,” Castiel remarked. 

“Not bad?” Dean asked incredulously. “This is more than I’ve made all month.” He pushed some coins to Castiel. “That’s your share.” 

“No, none of this 60/40 bullshit. We’re splitting it 50/50.” 

“That wasn’t the deal—” 

“Consider it insurance that I won’t kill you.” Castiel’s eyes raised to his in challenge. 

Dean thought of the blood pooling under the driver’s head. “Fine,” he said bitterly and pushed the older gentleman's watch over to Castiel, figuring that made it about equal. 

Castiel took his spoils with a sly smile. Dumping them into his bag, he stood and Dean watched him go to his horse. “You leavin?” he asked.

“I’m not sticking around for anyone to find that stranded coach.” Castiel mounted his horse and Dean stood. 

“I can’t even buy you a drink?” He didn’t know why he was trying to get Castiel to stick around for a bit longer; he should be content to still be in one piece. 

Castiel shook his head, the sly smile returning. “Adios, Dean Winchester.” 

He had disappeared into the trees before Dean realized he’d dropped something before riding off. Stooping to pick it up, he also realized he’d never told Castiel his name. How did he know…? Then he realized what he was holding in his hands. 

“Son of a bitch!” He tore into the leather pouch Castel had left behind. Sure enough, it was his own, the one that held his collection of letters. Pulling them out, he saw the twine he’d tied the pages with was gone.

“Son of a fucking whore,” he swore fiercely, thumbing through the letters. That morning, before setting out for the coach, he’d left Castiel alone for a moment while he went off to relieve himself. The bastard must’ve rooted through his shit then.

His letters were all still there, and he shoved them back into the pouch, cursing a blue streak. So that’s how Castiel had amused himself while they waited separately for the coach. He felt his face heat thinking of what Castiel might’ve read. 

“Good fucking riddance,” he said aloud and Dusty’s ears pricked up from where she drank at the river.


	2. Fifty-Fifty

Free of Castiel, it looked like Dean was finally having a run of good luck. Rumors spread about the coach, but no one knew who’d robbed the passengers or killed the driver, which meant his first armed robbery had gone over without a hitch. Emboldened by a weight in his money pouch that he hadn't felt in ages, Dean ate and drank his fill. No one had ever called him a man of restraint, and his actions that following week didn’t help him any in earning the name.

So, it really shouldn’t have been a surprise when his luck ran out and he woke one morning cramped and stiff in an alleyway, woken by the sound of voices and horses and wagons passing in the street. 

Groaning, he blinked and rubbed a hand over his face, pressed himself up from where he sat slouched against the wall of some building he didn’t recognize. His head felt too heavy, pulled to the ground even as he tried to stay upright, and he swore as he looked around, trying to get his bearings. 

A shadow fell over him and slowly he raised his head to see a figure silhouetted in the entrance to the alleyway. “This ain’t some damn circus, get lost,” he grumbled, his voice cracking. He fumbled in his coat for his flask.

“Hello, Dean.”

At the familiar voice, Dean nearly choked on his whiskey and looked up again, squinting in the sun. 

_Castiel._

“What the fuck are you doin here?” he demanded.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Castiel said with an amused smile, stepping further into the alley. “You know there’s a hotel across the street. I assume you can afford a room now.” 

Dean flipped him off. Last night’s events were hazy, but from the way his shoulder ached and his jaw throbbed, he was willing to bet they involved a fight. He touched his jaw gingerly and tensed at the jolt of pain. Castiel silently watched him, his head tilted as if curious, which only infuriated Dean more. 

Stumbling to his feet, he glared at Castiel. “What do you want?” The thought crossed his mind of tearing into Castiel over his invasion of his privacy—reading his letters—but he thought it best to keep his mouth shut. Who knew what Castiel had read? There was no point in giving him the opportunity to throw it in Dean’s face. 

“Nothing. Well,” Castiel shifted his stance. “Actually, seeing as we meet again, I have a proposition.” 

Brushing dirt from his clothes, Dean muttered, “You wouldn’t be the first.”

Castiel’s expression didn’t change. “I know of a small settlement a few miles from here. No law, and a general store that would be easy to rob.” 

“What, you’re broke already?” Taking another pull from his flask, Dean discreetly looked Castiel over. If Castiel had spent all his money, he’d done so more gracefully than Dean. His clothes were new, clean. He’d shaved his rough beard, making him look younger, less gruff, his eyes standing out even more than they had before. Dean remembered why he’d called him Blue Eyes. 

“I’m not broke, but looks like you might be."

At that, Dean ran his hands over his vest. “Fuck.” Wheeling around, he scanned the ground and searched his pockets, but his money pouch was nowhere to be found. “Fuck!” 

“Is this a regular occurrence for you? Getting robbed?” The corner of Castiel’s mouth twitched in a smile. 

“Did you do this?” Dean demanded, turning on him.

Castiel’s eyes narrowed from amusement to a warning. “I didn’t even know you were in town, I was only passing by when I happened to see you here.” 

“Just my luck,” Dean muttered and walked past Castiel into the street. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Where was his hat? 

“So?” Castiel pressed, coming up next to him. 

Dean glanced at him. _God_ , he hated him. “Where’d you say this store was?”

•◊•◊•◊•

Castiel led the way out of town on the trail leading to the settlement. Slumped in his saddle, Dean tugged his hat lower on his head—he’d found it with Dusty tied at the saloon. Ahead, Castiel’s horse had a saddle now, with a bedroll fastened behind it and saddlebags.

“So, this is what you do, huh?” Dean asked. There was a dull ache behind his eyes and the glare of the sun wasn’t helping. “Steal some money, spend the money, steal again?” 

“You’re joining me,” Castiel answered shortly without turning around in his saddle. 

“I ain’t judgin. Hell, it ain’t such a bad gig.” He urged Dusty to ride up next to Castiel's horse. “How come you want my help, though?”

“I don’t _want_ your help. I could rob this store alone, but I’d feel better having backup.” He glanced at Dean. “Hence, you being here now.”

“Ain't I flattered.” Dean’s stomach rumbled and he swore inwardly at the bastard that had robbed him blind the night prior. Probably the same one who was responsible for the aching along his jaw. “Seems you’ve been doin pretty well since we saw each other last.” Castiel didn’t respond and Dean rolled his eyes. “Well, you’re talkative.”

“I only need help with a robbery. I didn’t ask you along to talk.” 

“Sheesh,” Dean muttered and dropped the subject. What was he doing anyway, joining Castiel? He could’ve tried his luck at poker again, or maybe rolled a drunk. But he doubted he’d gain as much as he would robbing a general store. All the same, this was a new low, even for him. Sure he wasn’t above stealing, but he wasn’t trying to earn himself a wanted poster. And Castiel was a dirty bastard without a shred of decency.

But, of course, reason had never prevailed with him anyway, so he kept riding, following this sullen, blue-eyed outlaw. 

It was dusk by the time they reached the general vicinity of the settlement, so they made camp a mile out, planning to rob the store in the morning.

Dean noticed Castiel limp a little as he gathered firewood. “Your leg still botherin you?” he asked, digging in his pack for any food he had left. Finding a bag still a quarter full of coffee grounds, he poured some into a pot on the coals of the fire he’d sparked.

“You fucking shot me,” Castiel answered. 

“Well, that was before I became acquainted with your sunny personality.” Castiel shot him a look, dropping the brush he’d gathered next to the fire. “You have any food?” Dean asked, tossing his pack aside after finding only some day-old corn dodgers.

Grabbing his saddlebags, Castiel sat down across from him and pulled out biscuits wrapped in cloth. “I don’t understand. When we parted ways, you had plenty of money. How come you don’t have hardly any food?”

“I live from day to day, Castiel,” Dean said breezily, leaning forward to grab one of the biscuits. “What am I gonna stock up for? Just go from town to town, find a restaurant.”

“Doesn't seem very smart. Seeing how you need money to eat at a restaurant.”

Dean shrugged. “It’s worked out well enough." It was the way he’d been living for the past year and a half; he didn’t see any reason to change now. 

Castiel grabbed the handle of the boiling coffee pot with his bandana and poured himself a cup. A necklace dipped out of his shirt and caught the firelight—a silver chain and cross. 

“You religious or somethin?” Dean asked.

To his surprise, Castiel started and automatically brought his hand to the necklace. Then he seemed to come to himself and drew his hand away. “None of your goddamn business,” he muttered, picking up his cup. 

“You Catholic?” 

Castiel kicked a smoking stick back into the fire. “You don’t ever shut up, do you?” 

“Aw, fuck off,” Dean said. “What the hell do I care? Just tryin to make conversation.” Disgruntled, he poured himself his own cup of coffee to wash down the decidedly dry corn dodgers. If he’d only kept his head a little back in town, he wouldn’t be here now, stuck with a tight-lipped thief who seemed interested only in getting a job done.

When they finished eating, Castiel rolled out his bedroll across the fire. “We’ll ride into the settlement early tomorrow morning,” he said. “Should be mostly empty then.” 

“Alright.” Dean took a swig from his flask. The pounding in his head from that morning had since reduced to a low thudding. “This general store better be worth it.”

“I’ve passed through there before. The owner brings his money to the bank every three weeks. End of this week—but we’ll take it from him first.” 

“Ah, so you’ve actually thought this out. And here I thought you were just some petty thief.” 

“Better that than some broke drunkard.” Castiel’s eyes flicked up to Dean’s for a second before he settled down, pulling a blanket over himself. 

Dean shook his head, amused despite himself. He was glad Castiel wasn’t trying to hide his animosity—they both hated each other, no way of disguising that. He’d be more concerned if Castiel was acting friendly, would suspect he was going to pull some dirty trick. 

Pulling his eyes from Castiel’s frame cloaked in shadow and wavering light, he laid out his own bedroll. He didn’t have a preference in men—it was more take what he could get—but if he could be picky, his first choice wouldn’t be Castiel. In addition to his dour personality, Castiel was lean, smaller than him—though he had seemed pretty strong when they'd fought. 

These were all idle thoughts anyway, he told himself. This was Castiel, after all. The thief who’d tried to rob him, had shot at him, and had read his private correspondence. And though he wasn’t a stranger to relations with men, it wasn’t a subject one broached lightly, especially not with Castiel who wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if he assumed wrong.

 _Just get through this robbery and split up—for good this time,_ he told himself.

•◊•◊•◊•

“I’ll handle the owner, you clear out the store,” Castiel said in a lowered voice as they rode into the settlement the following morning. Ahead, the general store was a large tent propped up with tall wooden posts, one side open to the dirt trail outside. A blacksmith shop and saloon, also a tent, completed the settlement.

“Oh, right,” Dean complained. “Because you’re the leader.” 

“I didn’t have to bring you along.” Castiel pulled his horse to a stop outside the general store and studied the tent, worrying his lip. “Better yet—it’s almost empty inside. You wait here with the horses.” 

“What?” Dean watched Castiel dismount and grab his pack. “No, I’m comin in with you.” 

“I’ll need to make a quick getaway, so be ready.” Handing him the reins to his horse, Castiel walked off. 

“Sonuvabitch,” Dean muttered, watching him enter the shaded tent. Castiel was going to hold this over his head, wasn’t he, when they split up their spoils? He’d be lucky to get a 30 percent share with the way Castiel was intent on doing everything himself. 

Shaking his head, he watched Castiel roam the store, picking up random items as the only other customer in the store paid at the counter. Dean looked over his shoulder at the mainly deserted settlement. The blacksmith was at work, his hammering and the hiss of steam loud enough to drift across the street. Someone stood outside the saloon smoking in the shade. 

The other customer left the store, and Castiel approached the proprietor standing behind the counter. He set down a few cans and the man made a few notes on a ledger. 

“That’ll be—” the proprietor’s voice cut off as Castiel shoved his six-shooter in his face. 

“All your money, now,” Castiel demanded, “And quietly.” 

Obediently, the proprietor opened the money box sitting on the counter. Dean glanced over his shoulder again. No one seemed to have noticed the holdup going on. The last customer was riding away down the dirt trail. 

Inside the tent, Castiel dumped the whole money box in his pack. “I know that’s not all you have,” he said. “Where’s the rest?” He took a step closer and the proprietor raised his hands. 

“Alright, alright, it’s down here.” Slowly, he reached under the counter. Castiel shot a glance at Dean, then leaned closer to the counter. Dean couldn’t see the man anymore, ducked down as he was. 

“Don’t try anything,” Dean heard Castiel say, then the proprietor was upright, swinging a rifle out from under the counter, and Castiel leapt back. 

Without a second thought, Dean swung off Dusty and ran into the tent, pulling his gun. He aimed at the proprietor and the man swiveled, pointing his rifle first at Dean, then at Castiel again. 

“He said, don’t try anything,” Dean warned. 

Castiel took a step closer to the counter. “Grab the rest of your money and no one will get hurt.”

“There isn’t anymore,” the proprietor protested.

Dean glanced behind him and saw the man smoking outside the saloon peer across the street. Throwing aside his cigarette, he headed their way. 

Dean focused on the proprietor again. “Castiel, we gotta go.”

“Drop your rifle!” Castiel yelled and the proprietor lowered his rifle onto the counter. “I don’t trust him,” he said to Dean. “Watch him.” He jumped over the counter, motioning for the man to step back. 

Dean stepped further into the tent, cursing Castiel. At any moment, the man headed towards them would realize what was going on. “Castiel!” he hissed. 

“Got it.” Castiel reappeared with a bag in his hand. Then a shot ran out from behind Dean. 

Ducking, Dean ran and threw himself behind the counter next to the crouching proprietor and Castiel. “Fuck! What now?” he exclaimed.

“I’m being robbed!” the proprietor yelled as two more shots rang out. A row of jars behind them exploded, glass shattering and canned vegetables cascading to the floor. Castiel tossed his pack with the money to Dean, then grabbed the proprietor in a chokehold and stood, forcing the man to his feet. 

“Don’t shoot or he dies!” he called before motioning to Dean. “Come on!” 

Slowly, Dean stood and saw the man from across the street now standing in the store, gun aimed at them. Castiel walked out from behind the counter, one arm around the proprietor’s neck, the other holding a gun to his head. Yells came from outside the tent.

“There’s more coming,” Dean muttered to Castiel.

Castiel hesitated, then shoved the proprietor at the man aiming at them, causing them both to stumble backward. 

“Come on!” Castiel ran outside the tent and Dean followed. Shots rang out behind them and Dean ducked. Castiel skidded to a stop, stumbling a little, at the sight of their spooked horses fleeing from all the commotion. Across the street, the blacksmith ran out of his shop with a rifle.

“Let’s go!” Dean yelled, grabbing Castiel’s sleeve and pulling him to the side, out of the path of bullets. He whistled and Dusty turned, ran to him. Grabbing her reins, he swung into the saddle, still clutching tightly to Castiel's pack. Turning in the saddle, he aimed at the blacksmith and saw him fall before he spurred Dusty on and started riding away. Castiel caught up to his horse and grabbed his reins. Dean raced past him.

Shots continued to ring out and Dean kept low in the saddle, heart racing. He glanced behind himself to see Castiel following on his horse. Several more people had emerged onto the street and were running to their horses to give chase. 

“This way!” Castiel yelled, and Dean looked to see him pointing to their left. Quickly, he guided Dusty off the trail onto a steep hill clustered with trees, slowing their pace some. Castiel's horse caught up with Dusty, and Dean swore, hearing faint yells ring out behind them. The woods were too dense to get a clear shot on any of their pursuers. 

Then the trees broke away to a wide plain. Urging their horses faster, they raced across the land, side by side, gaining distance. 

Castiel glanced over his shoulder. “We can lose them!” he yelled. Dean looked back to see two riders break free of the woods, giving chase. Shots rang out, but their pursuers were too far behind to do any damage.

The clearing ended and they plunged back into the woods, keeping their pace as fast as possible. The sounds of pursuit faded behind them, the only noises the thudding of their horses’ hooves and labored breathing. They splashed across a stream, turned to the right, then the left. Dean found himself grinning, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He looked over at Castiel and caught his eye, saw a smile spreading across his face.

After what seemed like miles of riding, they slowed their pace. Dean's heart was still thumping, but without fear now. He was beginning to think he should've begun robbing coaches and general stores earlier. Seemed he was starting to get the hang of it. 

“Think we can halt for now," Castiel said, reining in his horse at a narrow stream.

Dean nodded and stroked Dusty’s neck as she dipped her nose into the water. “Good girl,” he praised. Dismounting, he tore his hat off and crouched to splash water onto his face. “Shit. What a ride.” He grinned up at Castiel. “Some thief you are. Nearly got your head blown off.” 

“I had it handled.” Castiel walked to the stream’s edge and swore under his breath, favoring his right leg. 

Dean dried the water off of his face with his bandana. “Well, it was excitin all the same. Think I could get used to this.” 

“We did pull it off pretty well, all things considered.” Castiel dipped his bandana in the water and wiped his face. He gestured to his pack. “Let’s see what we got.” 

Dean grabbed the pack holding the money they’d stolen. Sitting down next to Castiel, he opened it to reveal stacks of green bills with wilted corners and a pile of tarnished coins.

“No, I know I could get used to this,” Dean said, grinning and picking up a stack of bills to thumb through them.

Castiel smiled a little. He reached into the bag and pulled out a handful of coins. “Think this’ll last you more than one night of debauchery?” 

Dean gave him a shove and Castiel caught himself from falling back, grinning. Standing, he said, “Come on. Let’s get some more miles between us and the settlement.” 

•◊•◊•◊•

“Your share.” Castiel pushed some coins and bills aside. “And mine.” 

Dean looked up from making a fire. “That don’t look quite equal.” Castiel shrugged. “Yeah, um, see, that’s not gonna cut it. I saved your fuckin life back there.” Castiel started to protest and Dean said, “No, no, listen, if we’re gonna do this, we’re splittin it fifty-fifty. Equal.” 

“If we’re gonna do this? This was a one-time thing.” 

“That’s what we said the first time.” 

Castiel shook his head but dropped a few more coins into Dean’s pile. “There. Happy now?” Wincing, he stood. “This fucking leg,” he muttered, limping to the edge of the river they’d stopped by. 

Dean struck his flint, trying to make a spark. “I’m just sayin, we’re kinda good at this whole robbery thing. Why stop now?” He looked up at Castiel and anything else he was about to say got stuck in his throat. Castiel was pulling off his jeans, exposing the bloody bandaging around his shin. He noticed Dean watching and his eyes narrowed. 

Dean snapped his head back to his flint and pile of brush. He managed to get a spark going and fanned the small flame with his hat. Water splashed, then Castiel said, “Shit,” and Dean glanced up. 

Castiel stood in the river, his legs bare, pulling the bandaging off his shin. He threw the bloody cloth onto the bank and studied the wound, then stepped deeper into the river to splash water onto his leg, blood discoloring the water around him. He stood with his back to Dean, and Dean let his gaze linger a moment longer, travel up Castiel’s legs, the dark hair turning fine on his thighs, his shirttails covering his ass. 

Then Castiel splashed back to shore and Dean pulled his attention back to the weak fire. “Listen, um, where you headed after this?” he asked, propping more logs over the growing flame. He chanced another glance as Castiel sat on the river bank and pulled a roll of fresh bandaging from his pack.

“Towards Evanston,” Castiel said, unraveling a length of the thin cloth. 

Dean nodded, busying himself pouring beans into a pot, the space between Castiel’s legs drawing his eyes too strongly. Last thing he needed was to get caught staring again; who knew how Castiel would react. “I just came from there.”

An idea struck him and for a brief second he wondered if it was wise. Then he decided to go with his gut. “Actually, I happen to know that the post office’s mail coach will be arrivin in ‘bout a week and a half.” He snapped a stick in half and shoved the pieces into the flames. “I may or may not have insider information from the driver’s wife.” He grinned at Castiel.

Castiel eyed him. “You wanna rob another coach?”

“Worked out well enough for us last time.”

“You seem to have taken to armed robbery quite well.”

“Ain’t much different than what I’m used to. And I’m sure makin more than I ever could before. Do this a few more times and I could be set for a long while.” Unable to help himself, he looked up at Castiel, who had stood to pull on his jeans and tuck in his shirt. How long had it been since he’d been with another man? He was long overdue. An image flashed through his mind of Castiel grabbing him, shoving his face into his crotch— 

“Which was?” 

Dean blinked. “What?” 

“The shit you were doing before this.” 

Dean grinned, feeling strangely satisfied to have elicited Castiel’s curiosity. “I’m pretty good at cards.” 

“You cheat,” Castiel guessed, correctly. He sat across from Dean, fully dressed now. 

“Just another way to play the game.” He waited, then pressed. “So, you in?”

Castiel studied him for a moment, then slowly nodded. “Alright. But any money we steal, we split it fifty-fifty.” 

“Good with me.” Dean stuck his hand out. “Shake on it.” Castiel shook his hand, his grip firm, and met Dean’s eyes. 

Dean swallowed hard and let go. Grabbing his tin cup, he poured himself some whiskey and held out his flask to Castiel, but Castiel shook his head. “Not even a celebratory drink?”

“I don’t drink.” 

“Really?” Castiel leaned forward and lifted up the lid of the pot on the coals, looked inside at the beans simmering. “Why?” 

“None of your—” 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Dean pressed anyways, “‘Cause of your religion?” 

Setting the lid down with a clang, Castiel sat back. “I told you, I’m not religious.” 

“Then you’ve gotta have some reason. This shit’s like water out here.” When Castiel didn't answer, Dean shrugged and drank from his cup. “More for me anyway.” Stretching out his legs, he asked, “So, how’d you know so much about this settlement anyway?” 

“Traveled through here a few years ago. We set up camp—I set up camp near here.” Castiel looked visibly flustered and Dean raised an eyebrow. “My partner and I,” Castiel explained with a frustrated sigh. “We were looking for work and they were hiring people to clear the site for the settlement.” 

“Ah.” Dean took another drink and cleared his throat. “And by _partner_ you mean?” 

Castiel was frowning when Dean dared look at him. “You’re not suggesting—” 

“Just a joke.” _Fuck._ So hoping to get in between those thighs was futile. “You two robbed together?” 

“No,” Castiel responded shortly, and Dean stopped asking questions. 

When the soggy mess inside the pot began to boil, they shoveled the dinner into their bowls and ate silently. Dean could nearly forget that only a week ago, he’d tied Castiel to a tree and lain wide awake into the night, afraid Castiel would find some way to kill him. The turn of events was jarring, but things were finally starting to go his way. He wasn’t going to pass that up. 

He was fairly certain robbing the mail coach was a sure thing. The driver’s wife had complained of the long weeks her husband spent away from home and the danger of being on the road, exposed to outlaws. The thought of robbing the coach had tempted him then, but Dean hadn’t considered it seriously. It was too risky. But now with Castiel’s help, they’d actually have a shot. And if he had enough money, he could travel, stay in more populated towns where the gambling halls held real promise. 

Perhaps even go to Stanford—but that was a foolish thought. _Because I’d be_ so _welcome there, wouldn’t I?_ he thought bitterly. He and Sam could have a big, happy family reunion. Just like old times.

 _Idiot,_ Dean thought, dropping his spoon into his bowl with a clatter. No matter, he could find plenty of ways to use his money out here, provided these past ventures hadn't put the law on his trail.

Though he knew he was playing with fire, as they rolled out their bedrolls he hazarded another question. “How come, if you’ve been goin around robbin people, even robbin a bank, you ain’t on any wanted lists? That sheriff didn’t know who you were.” 

“Just lucky,” came the curt reply as Castiel smoothed out his blanket.

“You must be pretty lucky, then.” 

“I travel around a lot. Doesn’t do to stay in one place too long.” Sitting down on his bedroll, Castiel glanced at him, his eyes suddenly cunning in the firelight. “As I’ve heard you have a habit of doing.” 

“How the hell—” The letters. In all the excitement of the day, he’d nearly forgotten. 

His face must have expressed some measure of distress because Castiel chuckled lowly as he kicked off his boots. 

“What did you read?” Dean asked, his throat tight, straining his words. 

“Oh, not much,” Castiel answered casually, “Learned you have a brother. Sam, right? Seemed very concerned about you, though it didn’t look like you ever replied to his letters.” 

Dean clenched his hands into fists. “You had no right to read those.” 

Castiel glanced at him again, a mocking smile on his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were so sentimental. You’re like a young girl hiding her diary.” 

“Fuck off.” He struggled for words, settling on, “Go fuck yourself.” 

Castiel laughed again and Dean barely restrained himself from chucking his canteen at the sonuvabitch's head.

Pulling up his blanket, Castiel lay down, facing away from Dean. “‘Night, Winchester,” he said, a smile in his voice. 

Dean only glared at his back. Forget any goodwill he’d felt earlier towards Castiel. He should’ve known better than to trust Castiel’s amicable mood would last for long.

Grabbing his flask, he resisted shaking Castiel awake and asking what else he’d read. If his letters from Sam were all Castiel had read, he’d gotten lucky. There were worse things Castiel could’ve found out from some of the other letters. More humiliating.

 _A week and a half,_ he told himself, taking a long pull from his flask. Just a couple of days until they could rob the mail coach. He could only hope whatever money they stole was worth putting up with Castiel’s bullshit.

•◊•◊•◊•

“We shoulda headed more east, we would have reached someplace by now.” 

“Stop your bitching, we’ll get to a stopping place by dark.” 

Dean huffed and tilted the brim of his hat against the sun. Of course, Castiel had taken charge immediately that morning, waking him up by noisily clearing camp. Dean didn’t know what the rush was, Evanston wasn’t very far off, but any of his complaints were only met with silence. 

"I told ya,” he said now, riding up next to Castiel and glancing over at him. "I got money now, I wanna stay at some hotel. Enough with this sleepin on the ground shit."

Castiel didn’t respond and Dean swore under his breath. Unsurprisingly, their day so far had passed slowly and silently. His idea to keep traveling with Castiel seemed foolhardy now. Besides the fact that Castiel was an asshole, it seemed their next couple of days together were going to be incredibly dull to boot.

Their horses trudged up a hill, hooves crunching on dried, yellowed grass. Their shadows stretched long on their right, and at the top of the hill, Dean looked at the distant grey mountain ridges lining the sky on either side of them, enclosing the miles-wide valley they were traveling through. He thought maybe he caught a glimpse of a wisp of smoke, then the ground dipped again, hiding any possible towns from sight. 

He unscrewed his canteen, swearing at a small puncture in the bottom through which water dripped. He was hot, sweating, hungry. His flask was empty, and he wanted a bath, a big meal, maybe a whore. No, for sure a whore; he needed to blow off some steam. 

“So, Cas,” he said, after taking a long drink and hanging his canteen over his saddle horn. He was still bitter about Castiel reading his letters, but the land was stretching on endlessly and even talking to the fucker had to be better than the mind-numbing silence. 

Castiel didn’t respond to the nickname, but Dean continued, “Since you seem to know all about me, want to share more about yourself? For instance, what’s your full name?” 

Castiel waved a fly away from his face. “Why the hell would I tell you that? So you can turn me in to the law?” 

“We’re partners now,” Dean said, though even that word seemed generous. "I’m not goin to—” 

“Don’t say that.” 

“What?” 

Castiel met his eyes. “We’re not partners. We’re traveling together for some time and pulling off a robbery. It’s a shaky alliance at best.” 

“Oh, my bad,” Dean said sarcastically. He waited, and when Castiel didn’t seem about to share, pressed, “So? Name?” 

Castiel stared straight ahead. “Milton.” 

“Castiel Milton," Dean repeated. "Quite a mouthful. Before I knew your name, I was referrin to you as Blue Eyes.” 

Castiel’s head snapped to look at him. “Don’t call me that.” 

“God, what now? Why—” 

“I’ll shoot you in the face if you do, and I’m not fucking joking.” He stared Dean down and Dean raised his eyebrows.

“Geez. Touchy.” But he kept his mouth shut as they rode. At least the silence was better than death threats.

They reached a small settlement when the sun's last rays shone above the horizon. The orange glow washed over a general store, restaurant saloon, and other shops that lined one dirt-trodden road. No hotel or even a boarding house, Dean noted irritably. Then he spotted a bordello tucked next to the saloon. Alright, so perhaps the town wasn’t so bad.

After hitching their horses in front of the saloon, Dean first went into the general store across the street. It’d been a long while since he’d last bought new clothing and the two shirts he owned were becoming threadbare—not to mention, one had a hole in the sleeve courtesy of Castiel. He figured if he and Castiel were gonna be riding together for some time, he may as well stock up, be somewhat prepared for his extended time on the trail.

Wandering through the small store, looking at the various items, he felt an almost giddy delight realizing he could afford everything he saw. He would’ve killed for this feeling when he was younger. At the thought, a memory surfaced of roaming a general store as his pa haggled with the owner. He and Sam had pocketed toy whistles when no one was looking, and their pa had only shrugged when they pulled them out as they left town. 

What had happened to those? He had a vague memory of his pa, growing annoyed with the noise, taking his from him and cutting into it with his knife, rendering it useless. Dean had stolen Sam’s then. Probably lost it eventually. 

Looking up from a shelf, he realized the store owner was eyeing him. Dean walked over to the counter and deposited the various items he’d grabbed from around the store—a new canteen, foodstuffs, clothes—and felt vindicated when he was able to pay the full amount. But he pocketed a new flint anyway, though he could afford it, just to spite the suspicious owner. 

When he’d dropped his full pack off at Dusty, he found Castiel already seated in the saloon with a plate of food. After grabbing a drink and ordering food at the bar, Dean sunk into a chair next to Castiel and remarked, “Having money is the best, let me tell ya.” 

“Hmm,” Castiel said, cutting into the steak on his plate. 

Dean rolled his eyes not for the first or most likely the last time that day at Castiel's reticence. He leaned back in his chair, watching the bartender open a door behind the bar and call out a few orders. Sounds of cooking and voices came from the back room, presumably a kitchen. The memory of stealing those whistles with Sam made him wonder if that was one of the reasons Sam had gone to Stanford to work—the desire to never again have to steal or barter for something. Dean could understand it—though he wasn’t about to defend Sam’s choice to leave him. 

“How come you were so broke when I first met you?” he asked Castiel, trying to ignore those thoughts. “How’d that happen?”

Castiel was scanning the room which was mostly sparse, only a few men at the bar and another two engaged in a game at a back table. “Had a bad turn of luck.” 

“Somethin to do with that gang you were with?”

Castiel turned his eyes from the surrounding tables to Dean. “Sure.”

“What’d you fellas call yourselves? Somethin I’d recognize?”

“Don’t see why you need to know. There’s no warrant out for my arrest, I’ll tell you that much. So don’t bother trying anything.”

“I told you, I ain’t tryin anythin,” Dean protested. An older woman came out of the door behind the bar and brought over his food, plunking down his plate without a word. Castiel glanced up again as the door to the saloon opened, admitting someone who called a hello to the bartender. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Dean asked, and Castiel looked at him. “You’re actin all shifty.” 

“You really that stupid?” Castiel asked. “Being on the lookout should be second nature to you. What if we walked in here and someone from the general store walked in?” 

“Shit, alright, I get it." Picking up his fork and knife, he dug into his food. Though he didn't want to admit it, Castiel had a point. He was already used to watching his back; he’d been surprised by angry men he’d hustled at poker one too many times. 

The room filled with conversation that Dean didn’t pay any mind to, too focused on his plate. Then his chair jostled and he looked up to see a man passing behind his and Castiel’s table, trying to get to the back of the room. 

“Watch where you’re fucking going,” Castiel snapped. 

The man turned and looked down at him. “What’d you say?” 

“You heard me,” Castiel said, setting down his utensils. 

“Oh brother,” Dean muttered.

The man took another step towards Castiel. “Yeah, I heard. What I wanna know is, you gonna take it back?” 

Dean was about to tell the guy to fuck off and Castiel to cool it, when Castiel stood and pulled his gun. 

“Careful,” he said, aiming at the man, his gun inches from the man’s face. 

In half a second, Dean heard the click of other guns around the room. _Fuck._ Downing the rest of his whiskey, he pushed back his chair and stood. 

“Listen, fellas,” he started, “I think this is just a misunderstandin. Cas?” 

“You’re gonna apologize to me,” Castiel said darkly, staring down the man. 

“I don’t want a fight starting in here!” someone yelled across the room. Dean glanced over to see the bartender pointing a rifle at them.

Slowly, Dean pulled out his own gun and held it in the air, his finger off the trigger, “Alright, no need to start shootin. We’re on our way out.” Lowering his voice, he said to Castiel, “I don’t feel like gettin a hole in my head today.” 

Castiel’s eyes flashed to his for a second, fierce in their anger, and Dean felt his heartbeat quicken under the gaze. Then Castiel looked away, his eyes roaming the room, at the guns Dean knew were pointed at them. Dean put a hand on his shoulder and Castiel flinched, then slowly lowered his gun, still glowering at the man who’d bumped their table. Dean pushed him away from the table, grabbing the rest of the bread on his plate and shoving it into his pocket.

“We’re leaving,” he said, still holding his gun up in the air, looking around the room. Nothing like the dark eye of a barrel, let alone five, to spur one’s feet.

Naturally, Castiel didn’t seem affected by the threat they were under. He turned as Dean opened the door to the street and pointed at the man he’d threatened. “You’re dead!” he called and Dean shoved him out the door. 

“What the hell was that for?” Dean exclaimed when they stepped into the street. “I wasn’t done eatin!” 

Castiel turned to look back at the saloon where the patrons inside stood at the windows to watch his and Dean’s retreat. “I’m gonna kill him when he comes out.” 

“Uh, no, you’re not. I thought we were tryin to keep a low profile.” He couldn’t believe he was the level-headed one between the two of them. When a punch was thrown he never backed down from a fight, but it was idiotic to start a shootout when you were surrounded.

To think he’d been worried traveling with Castiel would be boring... He grabbed Castiel’s arm to pull him away from the saloon.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Yanking his arm away, Castiel turned his scowl on Dean.

Dean raised his hands, and Castiel stomped away towards their horses. “And where the hell are you goin?” 

Castiel untied his horse and swung up into his saddle. “If we stay here, I’m going to kill him.” 

“You fuckin ruined everythin, you know that, right?” Going to Dusty, Dean untied her from the hitching post. “I was gonna get a good meal for once, get laid. Shoulda just let you get shot.” 

“You haven’t got any right interfering in my affairs anyway.”

“Guess what, Castiel,” Dean spat back, sounding out the whole name. “We’re ridin together now. You should be thankin me for savin your ass.” 

“I’m starting to regret choosing to travel with you,” Castiel said, turning his horse away. 

“Yeah, and I’m regrettin askin you.” Dean looked down the street leading out of town. “Fuck,” he said with as much conviction he could muster. He leaned back in his saddle. “Alright. You got us in this mess. Where’re we going then?” 

He and Castiel didn’t speak as they rode a few miles out and set up camp in a patch of scrawny trees. After making a fire and unrolling his bedroll, Dean set down the bottle of whiskey he’d bought at the general store before they left town—because if he couldn’t have anything else, at least he could get drunk. 

“We’re gonna need some ground rules if we’re gonna work together,” he said, breaking the silence. He sat down heavily and uncorked the bottle. “Like no more death threats. Against me or others.” 

“I can’t promise that,” Castiel said, arms crossed, sitting on his own bedroll. He scowled at the fire as if it personally offended him.

“Then no more death threats over stupid shit, at least. I’m not gettin killed because you got your feelins hurt and started a fight.” 

“I’m not promising anything,” Castiel repeated. 

“Good talk,” Dean mumbled into the mouth of the bottle. Grimacing at the harsh burn, he set the bottle down and reached over to throw a twig into the fire. Castiel grabbed his wrist and Dean’s breath hitched. 

He raised his eyes to meet Castiel’s. It seemed Castiel had noticed his reaction because his eyes narrowed, but he only said, “If we're gonna make rules, I have one. If I threaten someone, don’t fucking get in my way.” 

Dean nodded, hating the way his throat tightened. Castiel was still gripping his wrist and his gaze was steady, his eyes as cold as ever, even in the warm, orange firelight. “It’s my business, understand? You pull something like you did tonight again and I’ll turn my gun on you. And stop with all the fucking questions. I don’t owe you any information about myself, even if we are riding together.” 

Dean nodded again. _Pathetic_. _Can’t even stand up against a damn thief._ Clearing his throat, he spoke, “You don’t have to be so goddamn testy, I get it.” 

Castiel held his wrist for a moment longer, searching his eyes, then dropped his hold. Dean pulled his hand back into his lap. It was going to be a long ride to Evanston if this was how it was going to be between him and Castiel—every interaction between them tense and threatening. Picking up the whiskey bottle, he took another long drink. 

The fire crackled and the shadows it cast wavered along the toe of his boots. Sitting a few feet away, Castiel drank from his canteen, and Dean felt a pull in his stomach watching his Adam’s apple move up and down. 

_Fucking pathetic,_ he thought. He was supposed to be angry at Castiel, not trying to get in his pants. Then again, he could always do both. He was itching to get under Castiel’s skin, dare him to make good on his threats. Mainly though, he was cursing himself inwardly for how he’d reacted to Castiel grabbing his wrist. He should’ve broken Castiel’s hand. 

He fought the reckless desire to save face. He shouldn’t risk getting on Castiel’s bad side. Although, he was probably already firmly planted there. If that was true, how much worse could things get? 

Taking another pull of whiskey and lowering the bottle, he glanced at Castiel again. “Ya know. That’s a whole lotta talk for someone who can’t even rob a damn general store without help.”

Raising his head, Castiel only looked at him steadily, his eyes betraying no emotion.

“A lot of talk,” Dean continued, “for someone I managed to shoot and truss up with hardly a problem a week ago.” 

He took another drink from the bottle, keeping eye contact, daring Castiel to retort. True to form, Castiel didn’t hesitate. “And that’s a lot of talk coming from someone who keeps love letters from his lady lover.” 

Dean swallowed hard, his heart starting to pound. “What’s her name?” Castiel asked, looking heavenward as if deep in thought. “Lisa, that’s right.” He lowered his head to look at Dean. “She sure wrote you a lot of letters, Dean Winchester.” 

“Shut the fuck up. Now.” Dean could hear blood rushing in his ears. 

Castiel held his gaze. “What happened to Lisa, Dean? Where’s she at now? She find out you have a proclivity for men and leave you?” 

Dean felt his face burn. He fought for something, anything, to say before settling on lunging at Castiel and tackling him to the ground. 

Swearing, Castiel struggled underneath him and Dean slammed his fist into his face, felt the satisfying thud, the dull pain in his knuckles. He got another solid punch in before Castiel got an arm free and pressed up against his face, trying to break his hold on his collar. Dean’s neck twisted to the right and he nearly lost his grip, but, in shifting, he must’ve hit Castiel’s wounded leg with his own because Castiel let out a small yelp of pain and his grip lessened for a moment. 

In that pause, Dean wrenched Castiel’s hand away from his face and pinned it to the ground. “Don’t ever talk about her again,” he growled, still tightly clenching Castiel’s collar and pinning his other arm down with his elbow. 

Castiel’s chest heaved under Dean and, trying to ignore the stirrings of arousal in his jeans, Dean shifted, pinned a knee on Castiel’s leg. A flash of pain registered across Castiel’s face before his eyes turned to stone again. “Do you understand?” Dean tightened his grip on Castiel’s wrist. “Don’t you fucking dare!” 

Castiel glared up at him, his eyes dark pools in the low light. Then he began struggling harder, straining under Dean’s grip. Freeing one of his legs, he kneed Dean in the groin. The jolt of pain made Dean lose his grip, and Castiel shoved him off. 

Dean landed on his side with a groan. Before he could catch his breath, he caught a punch to the face. _F_ _uck_ , he thought, his vision spinning for a moment, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He had enough presence of mind to block the next blow, then Castiel was on top of him, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to the dirt. 

“If you’re gonna threaten me, you better have something to actually threaten me with,” Castiel panted. “You got nothing on me.” 

“Fuck you,” Dean grunted, trying to get free, but it seemed he’d underestimated Castiel’s strength. Castiel’s eyes shone darkly in triumph, and despite the pain still shooting up between his legs reminding him they were in a fight, Dean wasn’t beyond noticing that the dirty, thieving sonuvabitch was deathly attractive. As fights went, this wasn’t the worst way for one to end, getting pinned down by Castiel. 

He slowed his struggling and Castiel’s eyes darted confused for a moment. There had to be a chance he wasn’t completely oblivious to the possibilities here. Testing his luck, Dean tried to get his leg up between Castiel’s, tried to grind it up against his crotch. 

He must’ve been successful, because Castiel inhaled sharply. Then he cuffed Dean on the side of his face, his sleeve harsh against Dean’s cheek. Letting go of him, he stumbled to his feet. 

“You givin up already?” Dean asked, trying to catch his breath. 

In response, Castiel kicked him sharply in the ribs. Swearing, Dean tried to grab his boot, but Castiel shook him off. “Go hang yourself,” he spat and stomped away, his limp more pronounced now. 

“Fuck you!” Dean called. Letting his head fall back on the ground, he breathed through ragged gasps. He should be the one walking away right now. But the wave of disgust washing over him wasn’t directed towards Castiel, but towards himself, the same emotion he felt anytime he thought of Lisa, glanced at her letters. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, rolling over onto his side. 

Castiel was nowhere to be seen when Dean finally caught his breath. He sat up slowly, wincing at the jab in his ribs. Reaching for the bottle of whiskey which, thankfully, hadn’t gotten knocked over in the fight, Dean took a long drink, then wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. 

_God_ , he hated Castiel.


	3. Behind Blue Eyes

_No one knows what it's like_

_To be the bad man, to be the sad man_

_Behind blue eyes_

_..._

_When my fist clenches, crack it open_

_Before I use it and lose my cool_

_When I smile, tell me some bad news_

_Before I laugh and act like a fool_

_And if I swallow anything evil_

_Put your finger down my throat_

_And if I shiver, please give me a blanket_

_Keep me warm, let me wear your coat_

_Behind Blue Eyes - The Who_

•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•

“Get your ass up and let’s go.” 

Dean blinked awake to sunlight, a tender spot on his jaw immediately reminding him of his and Castiel’s fight the night before. Pushing aside his blanket, he slowly sat up. Castiel stood by the horses, tying his bedroll behind his saddle. So, he was still around and talking to him. 

“What’re you in a hurry for?” Dean asked, pushing himself to his feet. He must’ve fallen asleep before Castiel returned from wherever he'd stalked away to after their fight. For the second time, he found himself relieved to still be alive upon waking. 

Castiel glanced at him. There was a bruise along his cheekbone and for a split second, Dean felt a twinge of remorse for being the one to cause it. Then his more reasonable side prevailed and he reckoned Castiel had it coming. “No sense in staying around these parts,” Castiel said. “We're headed to Evanston, let's get there.” 

“'Least let me eat somethin.” Dean bent down to check the coffee pot. Empty. “Shit.” 

Castiel mounted his horse. “Let’s go, half the morning’s wasted already.” 

Calling Castiel some creative names under his breath, Dean rolled up his bedroll. Castiel waited for him, impatiently tapping his fingers on his thigh, and Dean glanced at him, wondering if he was going to mention the night before. But Castiel kept silent. Perhaps that was for the best. 

They rode out from their camp, following a faint trail through wooded terrain and patches of thistle and brush. At noon, they stopped to water their horses and let them graze. Dean sat down under the shade of a tree to drink from his canteen and break lunch. He watched as Castiel grabbed food from his saddlebags and stroked his horse’s neck. Halo, Dean thought he’d heard Castiel call the horse.

_Isn’t that nice_ , he thought. So Castiel _did_ have a caring bone in his body. Would be nice if Castiel would share some of that consideration with him. 

Castiel came over to the shade and sat a few feet from Dean. “This is never gonna heal,” he muttered, rolling up his pant leg. 

Dean glanced over to see the bandage around his leg stained dark red. “You deserved it,” he said, looking out at the horses again. 

“You better get your shit together if we’re going to work with each other. I’m not keen on sticking around with someone who flies off the handle because they’re a sensitive little bitch.” 

Dean bit back a cutting remark and said simply, “You don’t want a fight, don’t bring up what doesn’t concern you.” 

“Now, see, that’s what I’ve been saying all along, but you seem to like to pry.” 

“Don’t see why you’re tryin to make any agreements, we both know we ain’t followin them.” 

“I kicked your ass last night. It’s in your best interest to agree.” 

Dean glared at him. “You did no such thing.” 

Castiel snorted. “Right. So, what’s this then?” He reached over and tapped the side of Dean’s face where Dean could feel a low pulsing from a well-aimed punch. 

He struck Castiel’s hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me.” 

“Let me make it up to you,” Castiel said and Dean looked up sharply, then hated that he’d done so when he saw the mocking gleam in Castiel’s eyes. 

Fuming, he shook his head, staring at the ground in front of him. Castiel continued, and Dean could hear the taunting smile in his voice, “What? You seemed ready enough last night to pull your pants down—” 

“Will you shut up?” Dean snapped, looking at Castiel. “Shut up!” His heart pounded as he stared down Castiel whose expression still read only amused.

_I’m not dead yet,_ he figured. There had to be a chance Castiel wasn’t opposed to the idea, though maybe he was only fucking with him. Let Dean slip and show any attraction at all and Castiel would be at his throat—and not in a good way. 

Standing, he brushed grass off his pants and gathered up his canteen and food pack. “Let’s get movin." He walked away to the horses without waiting for a response.

•◊•◊•◊•

“Listen, if I've got the chance to sleep in a real bed, I ain’t passin it up.” 

“Garyville’s a dirty, crooked place not worth stopping in.” Castiel pushed his hat back to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. 

“‘Case you haven’t noticed, every town ‘round these parts matches that description.” 

They had paused on the outskirts of a small town which sat in a valley in between two hillsides. Castiel argued in favor of taking a wide berth, while Dean was very adamant against riding in the sun any longer. 

“‘Sides,” Dean continued. “We’ll get to Evanston in a few days time anyway. We can afford stoppin early one night.” 

Castiel looked out at Garyville which, from their distance, looked like no more than ten structures which had happened to tumble down the hillside and land next to each other more or less upright. When he didn’t speak, Dean rolled his eyes and snapped his reins, urging Dusty into the valley. Let Castiel go on without him, what did he care? He was itching to spend some of the money sitting heavy in his money pouch. 

Hooves sounded behind him and he grinned, knowing Castiel was following. The son of a bitch could try to boss him around all he wanted, but Dean wasn’t going to take it. 

As they rode down the main street—if the dirt and packed-down yellow grass could be called that—Dean saw his first impressions of the town had been more or less accurate. Among the ramshackle buildings, he spotted a surgeon’s office in a one story house, a bordello—two stories but no less rundown— and a saloon made out of a wide, low tent. 

A few girls sat on the front porch of the bordello, smoking and lazily watching the passerby. Dean knew he’d be making a stop there later, that was for certain. Then a memory rose of a soft, pale waist and delicate fingers, and he frowned, looked away from the girls. Those thoughts wouldn’t do, not now. 

The street was mostly empty though voices and noise came from inside the saloon and a few people played checkers on the porch of a general store. A wide tent—a church, Dean was guessing—stood at the end of the street surrounded by a few houses. Catching sight of one house with a sign reading _Lynwood Inn_ , Dean headed there and pulled Dusty to a stop.

“I don’t think these beds will be much softer than the ground,” Castiel said, reining in at his side and looking up at the two-story inn. The porch sagged in one corner and the windows on the second floor were missing some shutters.

“Appearances can be deceivin,” Dean said, though he reckoned he’d be eating his words soon enough. 

The porch steps creaked angrily when he and Castiel walked up them, and a mangy dog slipped out the front door when Dean opened it. 

“Hello?” he called, stepping inside an empty foyer. Stairs led up to a second floor and the walls seemed to be covered in a flowery wallpaper, though the dust and grime coating them made it hard to tell. Castiel swiped his finger over the staircase bannister and held it up, dark with dust, looking at Dean pointedly. 

The floor creaked and Dean turned to see an older woman shuffle into the foyer. “Yes?” she asked. “You wanna stay the night?” 

“Yeah—” 

“One room or two?” She looked at him disinterestedly and Dean felt taken aback by the assumption behind the question. 

“Two,” he said, and thought he heard Castiel snicker softly behind him. 

“Second and third doors on the right,” the woman said, pointing up the staircase. She patted her apron pockets then turned. “Hold on.” 

She shuffled into the parlor off the foyer. Dean waited for Castiel to make some snide comment, but he remained silent. The woman returned holding a candle in its holder and a box of matches. “For tonight,” she said, handing them to Dean. She pointed up the staircase again. “First and second door on the right.” 

Castiel spoke up. “First door or third?” 

The woman shrugged. “Don’t matter to me. Only got one other couple staying the night. If you open a door and see personal belongings, let the room be.” 

She plodded away down the hallway and Dean turned to Castiel, raising his eyebrows. “Alright then.” 

He followed Castiel up the obnoxiously creaky stairs, remarking, “God, I’m starvin.” 

“What’s new?” Castiel muttered, trying the first door and revealing an unoccupied room. 

“Hey, I cook every night, alright? I don’t see what there’s to complain about.” Castiel rolled his eyes and started to shut the door behind himself, but Dean continued, “Doubt the woman who owns this place will be offerin any hot water or food. Wouldn’t trust what she cooks up anyway.”

“This place not living up to your high expectations?” Castiel asked, leaning on the doorframe. 

Dean ignored him. “Think the saloon serves food?” 

“It does.” 

“Alright, great.” Dean tried the next door over. Empty as well. He tossed his pack inside and shut the door. “You gonna come eat?” 

The sun had ducked behind the western hillside, casting the valley in shadow, when he and Castiel crossed the street to the saloon after putting their horses in the inn's stable. The heat of the day lingered in the street, and even more so inside the saloon, where the canvas tent walls trapped the daytime heat to make the air stuffy and warm.

The tent wasn’t very large, but that didn’t stop plenty of people from packing inside. Dean maneuvered past several men leaning over the bar before finding an empty spot. From the size of the town, he was surprised to find the saloon so crowded, but the raucous atmosphere inside and the rough, dirty clothing of the men around him led him to guess they were hunters or cowhands from nearby ranches, spending their well-earned money.

A young pretty blonde woman behind the bar nodded at him as she poured a drink for one such customer. “What can I get you?” she asked. 

“Whatever’s for supper tonight,” Dean replied. “Two plates.” Small round tables were scattered around the tent, most already occupied with men eating. “And one whiskey.” 

“Sure thing.” The young woman turned to grab a glass from a shelf behind her, and Dean looked to see Castiel had found a table and was staring stonily around. What was new? 

The blonde slid a glass over to him with his amber poison, and Dean said, “You’re a little young to be runnin this place alone, aren’t you?” 

“This is my momma’s place, I just help.” She started wiping down the counter with a stained rag and smiled up at him. “Besides, I'm not so young as I look.” 

“What’s your name?” Dean asked. 

“Jo.” 

“Well, Jo, you gonna make me stand here and drink this all by myself?” 

She laughed. “If I had a drink with every man who asked, I wouldn’t be on my feet right now.” One of the men farther down the bar called her name and she straightened off the bar, slinging the rag over her shoulder. “I’ll bring your food out to your table.” With a grin, she walked off. 

Grabbing his drink, Dean joined Castiel at a table along one of the tent’s walls.

“You don’t have a chance with her,” Castiel said as Dean sat down, shifting his chair forward so he didn’t have to crouch under the slanted canvas wall.

“Why? She turn you down last time you were here?” 

Castiel snorted. “She isn’t my type.” _Well,_ Dean figured, _that could mean several things._ “It’s her ma,” Castiel elaborated. “Fierce and protective as a damn momma bear.” 

“Mothers don’t scare me."

Castiel shrugged. “Keep at it then.” 

Dean drank from his glass and watched Jo step to a slit in the back tent wall and speak to someone. “How long since you were last in this town?”

“Going on four years." Castiel frowned. "Hasn't changed one bit."

“You come ‘round these parts when you were runnin with that gang?” 

“Nope.” Castiel tapped his fingers on the table, still scanning the room. 

“Ah, so ranchin then.” It was only a guess but the surprised look Castiel turned on him made Dean grin. “Figured you wouldn’t be hangin around this town for much else. Shoulda guessed you were a cowboy.” 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“Well, you sure didn’t come from some big city. Can’t imagine you in polite society.” 

“You know, you’re real stuck-up for someone who’s never had an honest job.”

“I never said that.”

Castiel eyed him. “Oh really? What have you done other than hustle poker?” 

“Shh, not so loud,” Dean warned, glancing around them. “Did some carpentry work for a time.” That was in Lawrence, but he wasn’t about to tell Castiel that—who knew what he’d read in Dean’s letters. “Didn’t last long, I’ll admit. But, way I figured, why let my talent for cards go to waste?” 

Castiel shook his head and continued looking around the room. 

“Can you quit it?” Dean asked, setting his glass down hard. “You look around so much, someone’s gonna come at you for starin.” 

Crossing his arms, Castiel turned his stony glare on Dean. “I can take care of myself.” 

“Sure,” Dean snorted. “Against a whole room of cowhands and hunters. I should know, my pa was both on and off.” Soon as he said it, he regretted it. No sense in sharing anything personal with Castiel. 

The quick, searching look Castiel turned on him confirmed his mistake. “So, how come your pa was a hunter, you ended up like this,” he motioned to Dean and Dean rolled his eyes, “and yet somehow your brother ended up a lawyer?” 

“Son of a bitch!” Dean sat up straighter, nearly knocking over his glass. Castiel was smiling, a daring look in his eyes. “You love this, don’t you? Holdin it over me that you read my letters? Well guess what? I don’t give a shit what you kno—what you think you know about me.” 

“Right. You look like you don’t give a shit,” Castiel said dryly. 

“You’re lucky you’re still alive. I could’ve done much worse by you than shootin you in the leg when you tried to rob me, shoulda killed you when you snooped through my belongins.” 

“I sure feel lucky. I’m enjoying your company so much.” 

“Aw, fuck off.” 

“Just what are you mad about, Winchester?” Castiel leaned closer. “That I know so much more about you than you do of me? Just what do you want to know, huh? You care so much, don’t you, always asking questions—” 

“I wish you’d shut up, go back to bein quiet.” 

“Why don’t you make me?” Castiel leaned back in his chair. “That worked out so well for you last time.” He stared Dean down and Dean only shook his head. He wasn’t going to let Castiel goad him again, not this time. 

“Pain in my ass,” he muttered, draining his glass. Which was an ironic thing to say considering the way his heart was thumping at the look in Castiel’s eyes. But he wasn’t going to clue Castiel in on that. He had some dignity. 

An older woman walked into the tent through the slit in the back. She carried plates balanced precariously in her arms and Jo took two from her, headed over to Dean and Castiel. 

“Here you are.” Dean smiled up at her as she set down the plates, and she dropped her hand on his shoulder. “Need a refill?” 

“If you don’t mind.” 

“It’s my job, ain’t it?” Jo headed back to the bar and Dean caught Castiel rolling his eyes. 

When she came back with a bottle of whiskey, Jo frowned at Castiel. “You sure look familiar.”

Castiel shrugged and pulled his plate closer to himself. “He was a cowhand ‘round these parts,” Dean answered for him and Castiel shot him an ugly look. 

" _That’s_ it, you were on that ranch that had the horrible accident a few years back, right?” 

Dean thought Castiel seemed to blanch a little, but he only looked steadily up at Jo. “I think you’re confusing me with someone else.” 

Jo shrugged. “So many people passing through, it’s hard to keep track of them.” 

“Think you’ll forget my face after I leave?” Dean asked, looking up at her. 

“Hmm.” Jo frowned in mock thought. “You’re gonna have to start saying more original things than that if you want to make an impression.” 

“Jo!”

Dean looked over at the bar to see the older woman motioning. “Stop flirting and help Ash fill some plates.” 

Jo rolled her eyes. “Enjoy your food,” she said and walked away.

“Guess you ruined your chances with her just fine yourself,” Castiel commented. 

“Hey, it ain’t over yet. I’m still workin on it.” Dean picked up his fork and knife and sawed at the brick-like—both in color and texture—slab of meat on his plate. “What was she talking about, that accident?” 

“Plenty of accidents happen out here.”

“You knew what she was talkin about, though.”

Rather than contradict him, Castiel started eating. After a few seconds, he replied, his voice monotone, “Few years back, a cowhand got trampled by cattle during a drive.”

“Rough way to die. And you saw it happen?” 

Castiel looked up at him quickly. “I didn’t say that.” 

“Didn’t have to.” 

Castiel picked up his knife, dropped it with a clatter, and picked it up again. “Ain’t none of your goddamn business anyway,” he muttered. 

“You sure been sayin that a lot lately,” Dean said, but he didn’t press the issue. Castiel’s hands were shaking as he cut into his food. 

They ate in silence until, as Dean sopped up the last remnants of food on his plate with a chunk of bread, Castiel whispered, “Fuck.” 

Dean looked at him, then in the direction he was staring. Two men had walked into the saloon to greetings from other patrons. Castiel ducked his head, but one of the men spotted him and his face brightened.

“Milton!” he called, grinning as he made his way to their table. Castiel scowled at his plate. “Long time no see, brother!” the man—light brown hair and beard, southern drawl—greeted him, not seeming to notice Castiel’s surly expression. “Didn’t reckon I’d see you again, ‘least of all here.” Noticing Dean, he stuck out his hand. “Benny.” 

Dean shook his hand. “Dean.” Well, if things with Jo didn’t pan out, here was another option. 

“This your new partner?” Benny asked Castiel and Castiel stiffened. “You thinkin about joinin the crew again, draggin this one into it?” He winked at Dean. 

“Go fuck yourself.” 

Dean looked sharply at Castiel. He was staring daggers at Benny, who raised his hands. “Woah now, brother, I didn’t mean no offense—” 

“If you had any respect and were any good as a trail boss—” Castiel cut himself off and was silent for a moment, seeming to strain for words. “I don’t have anything to say to you,” he finally finished. 

Benny’s features hardened. “See we’re still holdin onto grudges.” Dean watched Castiel, who was gripping his knife, stare so hard at a fixed spot on the table that Dean half expected to see a hole appear. “I’ll leave you to your meal.” 

_Good choice,_ Dean thought, glancing up at Benny as he walked away, then back at Castiel. He was surprised Castiel hadn’t pulled his gun yet. 

“What was that about?” he ventured. In response, Castiel grabbed Dean’s glass and downed his drink. “Hey, what—” Dean protested.

Pushing back his chair, Castiel said, “I’ll go order more.” 

Dean watched him shove his way to the bar. Whatever was bothering Castiel, it was enough to make him break his self-inflicted abstinence. Dean was going to take a guess and assume that didn’t bode good things. 

Castiel returned with two full glasses. He plunked one down in front of Dean and sat heavily in his chair holding the other. Dean was tempted to ask more questions, but Castiel’s dark frown that followed Benny around the room kept him quiet.

Female voices drew his attention to three women entering the tent. A jolt ran through him at the sight of one of the women, a tall, slender brunette. For a moment he thought she was… then she turned around and he saw her face. No, of course not. He drank from his glass, trying to ignore the way his heart had started racing.

The woman who’d looked so familiar—a prostitute from the next door brothel was a safe guess—moved through the room, her skirts brushing against the chairs and tables around her. Watching her, Dean felt a familiar ache in his chest. For quite some time after leaving Lawrence, he’d seen Lisa everywhere. Any glimpse of long, wavy brown hair set his heart pounding. From fear or hope, he was never quite sure. He didn’t even know what he’d say to her given the chance. Most likely, she’d turn away and refuse to speak to him if their paths did ever cross again. Not that he could blame her. 

Castiel stood again, holding his now empty glass. “You wanna get outta here?” Dean asked, but Castiel ignored him and headed once more to the bar. 

_Definitely worrisome,_ Dean thought. He scanned the room for an easy victim to hustle. It looked like it was going to be a long night.

He settled on a game of poker in the corner. As the night progressed, Jo lit the lamps on the tables and a brisk wind pushed its way under the tent walls. Dean found himself sitting next to Benny, or, more accurately, made his way into a seat next to Benny.

In between games, while waiting for a burly, grey-haired man to shuffle the cards, Dean pocketed his winnings and asked Benny, “So, you, uh, you know Castiel?” 

Benny nodded. He’d taken off his coat, his shirt sleeves pushed up to reveal toned forearms. “Worked with him on a ranch not far from here for near two years. Led a few drives along with Mick here.” He jabbed his thumb at a short man sitting next to him. “Castiel and Jimmy were part of our crew.” 

“Jimmy? His old partner?” Dean guessed. Benny nodded. “What’s got Cas so upset?” 

“Doesn’t do to talk about it.” Benny took a sip of his bourbon. “He’s holdin plenty of resentment, clingin to the past.” 

“Castiel’s always had a stick up his ass,” Mick spoke up. “I ain’t surprised he’s still an ornery bastard.” 

“Ornery’s the word,” Dean agreed. 

Benny laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “You ever get tired of him, you can join us in a few months. You ever done the work?” 

“No, but I’m a quick study.” Dean let his eyes fall to Benny’s shoulders, the stretch of his sleeves around his upper arms. “Good with a gun too.” 

“Bet you are,” Benny said, holding his gaze for just a second longer than necessary. Dean felt a stirring deep in his stomach he couldn’t blame on the liquor. 

The dealer started dealing, halting their conversation. Dean looked at the bar where Castiel had been taking up space for the past hour like he was paid to stand there. He was now engaged in conversation with a man standing to his left. _Aww,_ Dean thought, _Cas made a friend._ His slumped posture and the animated way he waved his hands as he talked told Dean he must be pretty sloshed; he’d never seen Castiel look so relaxed. 

A light hand on his shoulder startled him and he looked up to see the brunette Lisa-look-alike from earlier standing at his side. “Hi there, cowboy,” she smiled. 

“Evenin’ Robin,” Benny said. “Pull up a chair and join us.” 

“Oh, maybe I’ll join next round,” Robin dragged a chair over and sat down. “You know Ms. MacLeod doesn’t like us playin cards.” 

“She’s just worried you’ll beat everyone at poker and scare all the customers away,” Benny joked and Robin laughed. 

She didn’t really look like Lisa, now that Dean saw her up close. Her nose was tilted a little upwards and her voice was too soft. 

She caught Dean staring and smiled at him. “Like somethin you see?” 

“You just look like someone I used to know,” Dean hastened to answer. 

“Haven’t heard that one before,” Robin said dryly. Mick laughed. 

_Today just ain’t my night with women,_ Dean thought, but then Robin rested her hand on his knee. “Tryin to forget about her?” 

This would be a new low, sleeping with a whore that reminded him of Lisa. “Somethin like,” Dean admitted. 

A smile turned up the corner of Robin’s lips. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

But before Dean could start questioning his choices, a commotion at the bar caught his attention. 

It took him a moment to realize what was happening as people stood up at their tables and commenced yelling. Then Dean realized Castiel was at the center of the chaos, lunging at the man he’d been speaking to amicably enough a moment ago. 

“What in tarnation?” Benny exclaimed. 

“Son of a—” Dean stood, trying to decide whether to intervene or not. 

Two men pulled Castiel off and he struggled against them. Getting free, he snatched up a glass off the bar and threw it at the man who'd so suddenly angered him. The man ducked and the glass shattered on the ground. Three more people grabbed at Castiel as he threw a wild punch at the man’s head. 

“Quit your fightin!” Jo’s mother yelled and Castiel swore at her, then elbowed one of the men holding him back in the face. 

“Dammit!” Dean began pushing his way through the crowd. “What the fuck is goin on?” he yelled, shoving someone aside to get to the bar. Castiel glanced at him before kicking at one of the men still holding onto him, freeing one of his arms.

Before he could go for his gun, Dean grabbed his wrist. “Goddamn it, Cas!” Twisting Castiel’s arm back, he slammed him up against the bar. Castiel tried to kick him, swearing a mean streak. “Quit it!” Dean yelled, keeping his grip.

Breathing heavy, Castiel stopped struggling. Dean looked around at the crowd. “What the fuck happened here?” 

“He’s a fuckin lunatic, that’s what happened!” the man Castiel had attacked yelled. He held a bandana to his nose where blood was streaming. “All I says is knew that feller he rode with, Novak, or some shit.” 

Castiel roused and tried to pull away from Dean. “I’ll kill you!” he growled at the man and Dean smacked him hard across the back of his head. “You fucking cunt, I’ll kill you next,” he directed now at Dean and Dean rolled his eyes. 

“Get the fuck outta my saloon,” Jo’s mother ordered, pointing at the tent opening. “Now.” 

Dean dragged Castiel away from the bar. “We’re goin, we’re goin.” Jo was watching at a table a few feet away and Dean glanced at her as he snatched Castiel’s hat and coat from off the bartop. She pursed her lips and Dean swore inwardly. _God, Castiel ruined everything._

He yanked Castiel to the exit, keeping his arm pinned behind his back so he couldn’t get away unless he wanted a dislocated shoulder. Benny tossed him the coat he’d shucked during poker and Dean caught it with a grateful nod of his head. 

“What am I, your fuckin nanny?” he railed as they stepped into the night. Letting go of Castiel’s arm, he gave him a shove and Castiel stumbled forward. “This is the second time you’ve gotten us kicked outta some place and ruined my chances of gettin laid.” 

Despite his tone, he was tense, waiting for Castiel to make good on his previous threats and punish him for intervening in the fight. But the eyes Castiel turned on him were bloodshot and had lost their spark.

“Here, take these.” Dean shoved Castiel’s belongings at him. Cold air seeped through his own shirt and he pulled on his coat. Castiel took the items, then swayed on his feet, and Dean grabbed his shoulder. “Fuck, Cas.” 

Castiel sagged against him and Dean draped one of his arms over his shoulders. “Shit. Alright, come on.” Trying to ignore the press of Castiel’s body against his, he pulled him across the street towards the inn. 

“Cas,” Castiel mumbled. “Jimmy called me Cas.” 

“Good for him." Castiel started to veer left and Dean tightened his grip around his waist to pull him forward. “You hurt?” he asked. It didn’t seem like it; maybe the alcohol was just hitting Castiel hard. 

Shaking his head, Castiel mumbled something Dean didn’t catch. Ignoring him, Dean looked up at the inn.

_Great_ , he thought. _Stairs._

He stepped up onto the first porch step and watched as Castiel agonizingly slowly lifted one boot, wavered, and set it down on the step. “Who knew you’d be even more of a pain in the ass drunk?” Dean asked. Castiel dropped his hat and haltingly stooped to pick it up. “For the love of...” Dean muttered, snatching it up.

_Why the hell am I still here?_ he wondered. All the money in the world wasn’t enough to make up for this shit. 

Making it up the stairs, he let go of Castiel’s waist to open the front door. “All these assholes think they knew Jimmy,” Castiel slurred. He pulled away from Dean and half turned back towards the saloon. Dean grabbed his collar and yanked him to the door. “They don’t give a shit, no one cares,” Castiel continued as Dean led him inside. 

“Goddammit,” Dean swore under his breath. _More fucking stairs._ He pulled Castiel to the staircase and Castiel stumbled again. Belatedly, he remembered that Castiel was still limping from the gunshot wound on his leg. 

“No one gives a rat’s ass,” Castiel continued. His voice rose. “They all say they care, but no one cares. It’s that bastard Benny’s fault.” 

“Shut up, Cas, keep it down.” It was dark on the staircase and Dean nearly tripped himself. He swore under his breath and felt along the wall to steady himself.

Halfway up the stairs, Castiel lost his balance and fell against him. He leaned heavily against Dean, chest to chest, and Dean pushed him back, his heart pounding. “Pull it together, will you?” 

In the faint light, he could see Castiel was staring at him. “You don’t care,” Castiel said, almost wonderingly. “You don’t even know.” Slowly, he raised a hand and Dean tensed. But Castiel only lightly touched his face, trailed his fingers along Dean’s jaw. 

Dean didn’t trust him, knew Castiel wasn’t thinking straight, but he wanted to sink into the touch anyway, see where it led. He was fighting the urge to grab Castiel and kiss him hard when Castiel did it first, leaned in without warning and pressed his mouth to Dean’s. 

The kiss was rough and fell to the corner of Dean’s mouth, but Dean righted that by grabbing Castiel’s shirt collar and pulling him in to kiss him fully. Stubble scratched rough against his cheek as Castiel leaned into him again, pushing him back.

Dean put a hand out on the wall, trying to keep his balance, but Castiel didn’t pause, didn’t pull back for a second. His tongue pushed insistent at Dean’s lips, his hands groping at Dean’s shirt, and Dean lifted his hands to Castiel’s face and slotted their mouths together. A groan rose in his throat at the thrust of Castiel’s tongue against his, then Castiel pulled away suddenly. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he whispered and Dean tried to grab his arm to pull him back. Castiel knocked his hand away and stumbled. Before Dean could catch him, he fell on his ass, rattling the bannister, his boots thunking against the stairs. 

“Shit,” Dean whispered. A door creaked below them and a wavering orange light appeared in the foyer, growing larger as it approached. 

“What’s going on out here?” a scratchy voice asked. The old woman who’d met them earlier stepped to the base of the staircase, her face lit by the candle she held.

Dean hauled Castiel to his feet though Castiel tried weakly to stop him. “Just an accident.” 

“Keep it down, will ya? Some of us are trying to sleep.” The old woman walked away, the floorboards creaking, and the candlelight disappeared down the hallway. 

“That hurt,” Castiel muttered, pushing Dean’s hands away. His voice sounded less slurred, as if the fall had shaken some clarity into his brain, though he was breathing heavily. Dean tried to read the expression on his face. It was too dark to tell. 

Clutching the bannister, Castiel started walking up the stairs. Dean followed, scooping up the coat and hat that Castiel had dropped in the confusion. Reaching the landing, he grabbed Castiel’s arm, but Castiel shook him off. 

“Get off me.” He opened the door to his room, then paused, putting a hand on the doorframe to steady himself. 

Dean waited hesitantly. He wanted to grab Castiel, press him up against the doorframe, make him gasp as he ground his hips forward.

Swallowing, he asked, “You gonna make it inside?” 

Castiel didn’t answer and Dean pushed the door open further. “Come on.” Supporting Castiel once again, the weight and press of his body even more torturous now, he led him inside the room to the bed. 

Castiel sat heavily and Dean turned to light the candle standing on a small table in the corner. He took a deep breath, steadying his hands as he lit a match. It was just like Castiel to lead him on for days, finally kiss him, then back out just as fast. 

Turning back to Castiel, he found him lying on his back diagonally across the bed, eyes shut. His legs were spread, twisting Dean’s insides. It’d be so easy to step forward, get in between those thighs… 

“You gonna be alright?” he asked. He tapped Castiel’s knee with his finger and Castiel’s eyes shot open. 

He stared up at the ceiling for a long moment before asking, “Why’re you still here?” 

Dean’s breath hitched. “Nothin, I ain’t, I’m leavin.” In direct contradiction to his own words, he remained standing, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep his eyes from returning to Castiel’s crotch. 

Realizing he was still holding Castiel’s coat and hat, he placed them on the edge of the bed. Castiel didn’t move, and part of Dean told him to say _fuck it_ , get on top of Castiel, find out if he was as hard inside in his jeans as Dean was in his—probably not, considering how soused he was, but Dean would do all he could to change that. The rational part of him, which remembered the way Castiel had shoved him away to stop kissing him, kept his feet rooted to the floor. 

“You can leave now,” Castiel said quietly and Dean nodded quickly. 

“Right, yeah.” He headed to the door. “Don’t hurl everywhere.” 

“Fuck you.” 

There was the Castiel he knew. 

In his room, Dean tried to ignore the way his heart was still pounding. Shedding his coat, he threw it aside onto the floor and pulled off his boots. In the hallway, a woman giggled and a man hushed her. A door latched open, then shut. 

Pulling off his jeans, his hands brushed against his half-hard cock and he bit his lip. He wanted to go back to the saloon, finish up that game of poker, see if Benny was as good with his hands as he’d made it seem, sliding his fingers over the edges of the cards before laying one down. He doubted Jo’s mother would be very happy to see him return. Through the walls he caught the woman’s voice again saying something he couldn’t discern, then a soft moan and the creaking of a bed. 

_Shit._ As if this night couldn’t get any worse. Now he had to listen to what could’ve been that whore back at the saloon reacting under his touch if only Castiel wasn’t such a lightweight. _Of course_ drinking would only make the sonuvabitch testier. 

Getting in bed, he tried not to think of Castiel’s mouth pressed against his. His mind was still reeling from the fact that Castiel had kissed him, but rather than any sort of relief, he only felt an apprehension. There was no way Castiel would’ve ever kissed him while sober. There was going to be hell to pay tomorrow. 

Giving in, he grabbed his cock and pumped it, feeling dirty and disgusted with himself. Getting off alone to the thought of Castiel’s body pressed against his, to the sounds of strangers fucking. Seemed he was always setting new lows for himself.

Though, he reasoned, muscles relaxing into the pleasure coursing through his body, how could it get any worse than this?


	4. With His Luck...

Dean woke at morning light, cramped and uncomfortable. Harsh sunrays and sounds signaling the town's waking cut through the shuttered window, which had allowed wind to whistle through all night long. The bed he slept in seemed to be made primarily of springs rather than any mattress, and he groaned as he sat up, rubbing his back. 

He dressed, then grabbed his pack and stepped into the hallway. The house was quiet beyond the creak of the floorboards as he walked to Castiel’s room. Not receiving a reply when he knocked, he opened the door. 

Castiel lay curled on his side over the covers, face half buried in the pillow, still dressed down to his boots. One hand rested on the pillow next to his face. Dean stared for a long moment at the curl of his fingers and his dark hair against the off-white pillowcase before coming to his senses. 

He kicked the bed and Castiel startled awake, eyes shooting open. 

“Rise and shine,” Dean said, stepping to the window to look out at the street below. A young woman swept the front porch of the house opposite.

Groaning, Castiel buried his face back in the pillow. Dean rolled his eyes. “Come on, asshole, I’m not waitin around in this shithole all day, let’s get movin.” 

Sluggishly, Castiel lifted his head and blinked, then sat up, wincing and running a hand through his hair so that it stood up in all directions. Without looking at Dean, he got out of bed, collected his hat, coat, and pack, and left the room without a word—which was just how Dean wanted it. Somewhere in between waking up and remembering the prior evening's events, he’d decided the best course of action was to never mention last night at all. 

Riding in the heat and sun under a suffocating canopy of trees must not have been a pleasant experience for Castiel, but to his credit he didn’t complain, just pulled his hat low and held his reins loosely in his hand as they rode at a leisurely pace. Dean didn’t know this area very well, but he led the way anyway, heading vaguely north-west, trusting Castiel to point out when he veered off course. 

They stopped at high noon to let the horses drink and graze. Castiel settled himself under a tree and, putting his hat over his face, seemed to fall asleep. 

Dean splashed water on his face at the creek, then went to Dusty and stroked her coat as she nibbled at the brittle grass. Glancing at Castiel, he thought of the way Castiel had carried on about Jimmy the night prior. He didn’t blame him for getting in a drunken fight last night—though inconvenient for those involved, it was one of Dean’s preferred coping methods.

But it was hard to reconcile the emotional, slurring Castiel from last night with the cold, aloof one Dean had been traveling with for the past few days. Castiel was carrying something heavy, that was clear. But weren’t they all? Dean wasn’t going to get all teary-eyed about the shit he carried. What was done was done. He was paying for it plenty without embarrassing himself further by being a weepy drunk. 

When they started riding again, Castiel spoke for the first time that day. “We should head this way.” He pointed off the rough trail they’d been following for the past hour. “Evanston’s less than two days off.” 

Dean nodded and nudged Dusty off the trail into the more densely packed woods. They’d have to camp out at night again. “What’s the plan here?” he asked, ducking under a tree branch. “We get to Evanston and then what?” 

“And wait until the mail coach reaches the nearby area.” 

That didn’t sound torturous at all, hanging around Castiel for a week, maybe reliving last night every night at every saloon in town. “You don’t have any buddies in this town too, do you?” he asked. He looked over his shoulder and Castiel’s eyes studied him darkly from under the shade of his hat. “No one who knows you, or knows your old partner?” 

Castiel didn’t respond and Dean, facing front again, continued, “I signed up to help you with a robbery, not drag you from fights and wipe your tears every night when you get all weepy about ol’ Jimmy.” 

His tone might’ve been cavalier, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t listening for the click of Castiel cocking his gun. He could never be certain when Castiel would decide enough was enough, decide Dean wasn’t worth the trouble of keeping around. 

All he heard though was Castiel’s low voice. “Don’t talk about something you know nothing about.” 

“Oh, I know plenty—’least, I can guess it.” The idea had been rolling around in his head without his realizing it, and now he voiced what he’d construed from Castiel's actions last night. “You and Jimmy had somethin special, or so you thought, and then he left and broke your heart, leavin you to wallow around like some heartsick woman. Grow up.” 

Hearing Castiel pull his horse to a stop, Dean turned around in his saddle, slowing Dusty. Castiel was shaking, actually trembling, and his glare was fierce enough to light tinder. His hand went to his gun belt and Dean smirked. 

“You ain’t gonna kill me, Cas, cut the bullshit. You’ve threatened me plenty and never followed through with it yet. You want my help and you’ll keep me alive, ‘least until this robbery is over.” 

Slowly, Castiel dropped his hand, and Dean turned back in his saddle, pleased with himself. Castiel thought he had the upper hand and Dean was sick and tired of it; he wasn't going to be scared into submission. 

Flicking his reins, he started riding again, only to hear a deafening gunshot. Instinctively, he ducked, and Dusty reared, neighing. 

“Holy fuck—Cas!” Dean fought to get Dusty under control, narrowly avoiding getting thrown, his ears ringing. Though he wasn't registering any pain, he scanned himself to confirm Castiel hadn’t shot him. Then he realized his hat had been blown clear off his head. It lay a few feet away in the brush, still smoking. 

Castiel rode past him, holstering his gun. “Don’t ever speak of Jimmy again,” he said and kept riding. 

“You dirty son of a bitch!” Dean yelled. His fingers itched to grab his gun, but retaliating would only lead to a shootout and he’d had one scare already—he didn’t want to actually get shot. 

Glaring at Castiel’s back, he leaned down and snatched up his hat, swearing at the hole on the top. Last night, the mournful tone in Castiel’s voice had tricked him for a moment, but he knew now that the softness in Castiel’s eyes had only been drunken nostalgia. Castiel had probably used and abused Jimmy without a conscience when they were together, probably scared him off. Any sympathy Dean had felt for Castiel last night was long gone now.

Cursing him, he hurried Dusty to catch up. So, this was the game Castiel wanted to play? Well, the joke was on him because now Dean knew how to rile him, and Castiel knew it. Castiel could mention reading Dean’s letters all he wanted—all Dean had to do was mention Jimmy and Castiel lost his cool. 

•◊•◊•◊•

After stopping for the night and eating supper—both sullen affairs—Dean leaned back on the log they’d made their fire beside and poured whiskey into his coffee. Looking pointedly at Castiel as he screwed the top back on his flask, he said, “I ain’t givin you any of this shit. We’ve seen how you get.” 

Castiel didn’t take the bait. He sat a few feet from Dean, smoking, and he gestured to their empty bowls. “We have to pick up more supplies soon. We hardly have any shit to eat.” 

“There ain’t no other general stores we can rob? I ain’t spendin my hard-earned cash ‘less I need to.” Dean took a drink. “Would’ve gotten laid for free last night if you hadn’t decided to get us kicked out of that saloon.” 

“I did you a favor. Stopped you from sleeping with that bastard Benny.” 

“What, you’ve done the deed with him before?” 

Castiel snorted. “No, but I worked with him, I know what a jackass he is.” He frowned in mock thought. “On second thought, you two would be perfect for each other.” 

Dean shook his head. “Gotta work on those insults, Cas. You’re gettin soft. Seein all your old buddies in town must’ve struck deep.” Stamping out a spark that flew out from the fire, he continued, his tone casual, “What I can’t figure out is why your mood changed so quick last night. You were gettin pretty friendly with me before you went back to being an asshole.” He didn’t know why he was trying to goad Castiel into speaking of last night. Maybe he needed to know if there was a chance any of it would happen again—the fight, the kiss. 

“You better shut your trap,” Castiel said, taking a draw on his cigarette. “Wasn’t anything to it, I was drunk. Don’t get flattered.” 

Despite his harsh tone, Dean thought he caught a slight tremble in Castiel’s hand and the sight made him continue. “Come on, Cas,” he said, shifting to sit closer to him. “We could’ve had a good time last night, you know that.” 

Shaking his head, Castiel threw down his cigarette and ground it out with his heel. He started to stand and, without thinking, Dean grabbed his arm to stop him. In the blink of an eye, Castiel swung at him. Before Dean could react, his fist connected with the side of his head. 

White light flashed through Dean’s vision as he recoiled. “You motherfucker!” he sputtered and jumped to his feet. “Not this shit again!” 

He tried to hit Castiel in the stomach, but Castiel blocked the blow so Dean’s fist only glanced off his side. When he swung at Dean’s head again, Dean ducked. He kicked Castiel’s legs out from under him and Castiel crashed to the ground with a yell. The coffee pot by the fire fell over, sending up a spray of hissing steam. 

Before Castiel could rise, Dean scrambled on top of him. Castiel fought like a wildcat, a flurry of punches both missing their mark when Dean managed to block them, and striking hard when Dean couldn’t. Kneeing him sharply in the inner thigh, Dean stopped the volley for half a second. It was enough time to catch Castiel’s wrist and shove him over onto his stomach. 

Castiel lost no time in trying to get free, but Dean jammed a knee into his lower back, eliciting a grunt of pain followed by a string of curses. Wrenching Castiel’s wrist up, Dean twisted his arm behind him. He caught a faint yelp, then Castiel stilled beneath him, chest rising in uneven, constricted gasps. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Dean panted. He pulled on Castiel’s wrist for good measure and Castiel stiffened but didn’t make a sound. The side of his face was pressed into the dirt, but Dean still caught a deathly glare from the eye he could see.

With his free hand, Dean tapped the side of Castiel’s head. “You’re all kinds of messed up, aren’t you? Who hurt you, Cas?” 

That was enough to rile Castiel up again. He tried to buck his way out from under Dean and, caught by surprise, Dean’s knee slipped from Castiel's back and he nearly fell over. But he tightened his grip on Castiel’s wrist, wrenching it up so he could feel the strain in Castiel’s arm. The action successfully halted Castiel’s struggles as he let out a gasp of pain.

Dean moved so he was now straddling Castiel’s hips. He couldn’t lie; he was enjoying this position. Castiel tried to move his other arm but it was pinned under Dean’s knee. He swore and Dean grinned at his obvious discomfort. 

“Guess I got the upper hand this time,” he said, leaning down closer to Castiel’s ear, though not close enough so Castiel could rear his head back and headbutt him. “You ain’t as tough as you think you are.” 

Though he was breathing hard, Castiel managed to twist his head to shoot Dean with another fierce glare, eyes lit by their campfire. “Go fuck yourself.”

“You can tap out anytime you want,” Dean said, settling back, his groin pressing into Castiel’s ass. He was hard, hard enough he knew Castiel noticed, and he wanted Castiel to notice. 

“Come on, Cas,” he said, and this time he was no longer speaking about their fight. “Pretendin you don’t give a shit, fightin me off, it’s all an act. You and I both know what you really want.” For good measure, and to ensure his meaning was taken correctly, he ground his hips down onto Castiel’s ass. Castiel’s breathing hitched and Dean clenched his jaw against the shudder that reaction caused in his own body. If only Castiel would give in, let Dean shove his hands under his clothes and make him squirm, his stony demeanor broken for once… 

But, unsurprisingly, Castiel was stubborn. “You’re delusional,” he said, his voice low and steady. 

_Son of a bitch,_ Dean thought bitterly. “Cas,” he started, but he knew that sounded too desperate, so he cut himself off and kept his grip on Castiel’s wrist, giving him a chance to give in. At this point, he wouldn’t care if he was the one pinned down and Castiel pressed on top of him, so long as he got some much needed relief. 

He didn’t bother hiding his quick intake of breath as Castiel shifted under him, rubbing against the strain in his trousers. For a moment, he thought he might have finally broken him down, then Castiel spoke, biting off the words, 

“Get off.”

Swearing under his breath, Dean pulled back from him. He got to his knees first, still keeping his grip, then stood and released Castiel’s wrist all at once, backing away to avoid the fight he knew Castiel still had in him.

Castiel rose to his feet quickly, eyes shooting fire, and Dean raised his hands. 

They stood like that for a moment, space between them charged. Dirt streaked across Castiel’s cheekbone, his shirt parted at his collar, his silver necklace glimmering in the firelight. Dean’s eyes flicked down to the bulge in Castiel’s pants, then up again to Castiel’s eyes. 

“Fuck you,” Castiel said in response to Dean’s grin. Rubbing his shoulder, he angled his body as if about to walk away, then paused. 

“No, go on, walk off,” Dean taunted, “You gonna go get yourself off in private? You know I can help with that.” 

Castiel turned on him, a fierce glint in his eyes, and Dean lifted his hands in defense, hoping to block the blows he assumed would follow. 

Instead though, Castiel grabbed his arm. “You’re so goddamn frustrating,” he growled, yanking Dean down towards the ground. “You never fucking shut up.” 

Dean’s knees hit the ground hard and he tried to push Castiel off, still not sure what direction this was going in. Then Castiel also sank down onto his knees, one hand unbuttoning his pants, and Dean paused, heart pounding. 

Grabbing Dean’s shirt collar, Castiel pushed him forward. “On your hands and knees, now." Dean quickly did so, fumbling at the button on the fly of his pants. As soon as he’d unfastened them, Castiel grabbed his waistband and yanked his pants down to his knees. “Spread your legs.” 

Dean did so, unable to stop the arch in his back that command caused. He heard Castiel spit, felt Castiel’s knee nudging his legs further apart, then Castiel pressed into him with a grunt. 

Gasping, Dean dug his fingers into the dirt. “Fuck, fuck,” he choked out, but Castiel kept pressing into him, one hand still clutching the back of his collar, the other grasping his hip.

It hurt like hell, and Dean ducked his head, gritting his teeth, his shirt collar cutting into his neck from Castiel’s grip. When Castiel’s hips hit his ass, he dragged his cock out, then snapped his hips forward. Desperately, Dean tried to relax his muscles as Castiel began thrusting into him, both of them silent except for sharp grunts and intakes of breath.

Then Dean jerked, a startled moan tumbling from his lips as Castiel’s cock hit a certain spot. That small twinge of pleasure, along with the simple astonishment that Castiel was fucking him, was enough to cut through the haze of pain. Licking a streak up his palm and reaching down, he pumped his cock, fighting the urge to come but too desperate to slow his pace.

Castiel increased his own pace, fingers gripping Dean’s hips hard enough to bruise, his hips hitting Dean’s ass. Dean thrust back, urging him deeper, and Castiel’s rhythm faltered. With a choked groan, he came, fingers losing their grip on Dean's shirt.

He pulled away when he finished, and Dean chased his own orgasm. A few more strokes and he spilled into his hand and onto the ground.

Dropping down onto his back, Dean shut his eyes and tried to catch his breath, his head spinning. Castiel breathed hard beside him, and Dean opened his eyes to see Castiel sitting back against his heels, hands pressed to the dirt. 

“Fuck,” Dean managed, running a hand over his face. “You couldn’t have given me a warnin?”

“Had to shut you up somehow,” Castiel muttered, and Dean hated the way his breath hitched at the callous words, his chest rising in a short jerk. Raising his head, Castiel met his eyes for a moment before ducking his head again. 

Sitting up with a groan, Dean tugged his pants up, crawled over to his bedroll, and dropped down again. He glanced at Castiel, who was grabbing his bandana and cleaning himself up, then looked up at the sky, at the leafy treetop cover and starry pinpricks. His mind was still playing catch-up with the surprising turn of events.

He supposed he should’ve expected something so rough from Castiel, but he wasn’t exactly angry. Though if Castiel thought he'd gotten the last word, that this was a once and done deal, he was sorely mistaken. If anything, Dean was already craving more. There was something so infuriating about the way Castiel had come with hardly a noise; Dean wanted to draw more out of him, take his cock in his mouth, make him come undone under his touch. 

He looked up as Castiel moved over to his own bedroll. "That's all you got, Cas?" he asked. "Wore yourself out? No round two?" He wasn’t serious, but he felt he had to say something, at least to combat Castiel’s silence, which made everything seem so damn weighty. It was just a fuck, nothing of consequence.

But without a look or comment, Castiel tugged up his blanket and lay down. The fire crackled loudly in the silence between them. Who knew how Castiel would act in the morning, Dean thought bitterly, pulling his eyes back to the sky. This desperate fuck would either prove to be only the beginning of more, or a terrible decision. With his luck, probably the both.

•◊•◊•◊•

Castiel didn’t speak much the next morning—only short, impatient remarks. That was nothing new, though Dean couldn't help wonder if he was feeling abashed about last night. He had half expected to wake up to Castiel gone, even wondered if he himself should be packing up his bags. In the morning light, their hasty actions the night prior seemed less than wise. As a rule, Dean never stuck around after a hook-up. Lisa had been his only relationship, and they had lasted longer together than he’d ever believed they could. But now he was going to be stuck with Castiel for several more days.

Neither of them mentioned what they'd done as they ate a quick breakfast. What was there even to say to each other? No, Dean reckoned they'd just pretend it'd never happened until the need inevitably struck them both, or at least himself, again. If he was smart, he'd tamp down any urges before they began. If he was smart.

“Let’s go,” Castiel called, mounting his horse as Dean scattered the fire’s ashes.

“I’m coming, I'm coming." It hurt enough to sit; he was dreading a whole day in the saddle. _Damn you,_ he thought, without much venom, towards Castiel. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so fucked so forcefully.

“I can always find someone else to ride with who’s not so damn slow,” Castiel said, licking his thumb and leaning down to wipe dirt off his boot in the stirrup. 

_You gonna find another partner who’ll let you fuck him in the ass?_ Dean thought. He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction that would get out of Castiel if he said it aloud, so he kept his mouth shut just in case. 

As he mounted Dusty, biting back a grimace while deliberately not looking at Castiel, he tried to decide what was worse—Castiel never fucking him again or last night becoming a regular occurrence where Dean had to wake up every morning realizing he’d given into some base desire with the sonuvabitch. Then again, he was used to hating himself over bad decisions, so he supposed he’d take the latter. 

Riding out from their camp, Dean glanced over at Castiel. There was still a bruise on his face—whether from their fight or from the fight he’d gotten into at that saloon, Dean wasn’t sure. Upon first meeting Castiel, Dean had tried to convince himself that the outlaw wasn’t his type, if he even had one, but now something about the set of Castiel’s jaw and the way his hat shaded his eyes made his stomach twist all the same. 

“What?” Castiel snapped, looking at him, and Dean blinked. 

“Nothin. Shit.” Reddening, he looked out back ahead at the trail. The sun went behind a cloud, its bright glare lessening for a moment. “Just surprised to see you’re still around. Thought you might hightail it outta here.” 

“And why would you think that?” 

Dean looked at him and saw the familiar, mocking glint return to Castiel’s eyes. _Fuck._ He knew he never should’ve brought up last night. Tense, he shook his head, waiting for what was coming. 

“What, you want me to act all embarrassed that we fucked, like some prudish girl?” 

“No, I—” 

“Don’t think I should be the one embarrassed, I’m not the one who moaned like some cheap whore last night—” 

“Go fuck yourself,” Dean said, reddening again. This son of a bitch could get under his skin in no time at all. 

Castiel grinned. “You regretting what happened? Wasn’t quite what you wanted?” 

“Just shut the fuck up, alright?" He glared at Castiel. "Quit it. You’re a fuckin asshole.” 

Castiel shrugged. “Your fault if you ever thought differently.” 

They passed the next several hours in silence, roughly following the course of a river as the day grew warmer. Dean was inclined to agree with Castiel—the quicker he learned to keep his guard up around the fucker, the better. Though part of him told to cut his losses and abandon Castiel, the idea of getting rich from robbing the mail coach had taken too tight a hold on his mind. It was a small price to pay, he reasoned. Only a few more days of putting up with Castiel’s shit and then he’d be off on his own again, wealthier than ever.

After an hour’s rest around noon, they started riding again. Ahead, Dean spotted the shape of a horse-drawn wagon cresting the low hill rising in front of them. The wagon slowly descended, its wheels making rivets in the grass, marking its path. The driver nodded at them as he passed, and Castiel turned in his saddle to watch the wagon pass by.

“What?” Dean asked, the first words spoken since their spat that morning. He turned in his saddle to see what Castiel was looking at. The wagon was splintered, creaky, and held several barrels and bags which jostled over the uneven terrain.

“He’s carrying a lot of foodstuffs,” Castiel remarked.

“So?”

Castiel pulled his horse to a stop. “So, it’s like you said, why pay for this shit when we don’t have to?” 

Dean slowly nodded. “Glad to see we’re in agreement about one thing.”

Not bothering to answer, Castiel lifted his red bandana from around his neck to hang under his eyes. Dean followed suit, drawing his Colt, and they rode after the wagon which was ambling steadily away.

They were close behind when driver turned at the sound of their horse’s hooves. His eyes widened at the sight of them and he whipped back around his seat. Castiel shot a warning shot in the air, and the driver responded by grabbing the brake lever and grinding the wagon to a halt. Swinging a rifle over the back of his seat, he began firing at them. 

Dusty startled at the gunshots and Dean hunched over in his saddle, coaxing her to stay steady. Sighting the driver, he shot back. The rifle’s firing stopped abruptly as the driver fell back in his seat with a cry. 

Quickly, Castiel rode around to one side of the wagon and pointed his gun at the driver. Dean rode around the other to see the man clutching a hand to one ear. Raising his other hand in the air, the driver glared at him. Dean reached over and snatched up the rifle from where it’d fallen at his feet. 

“On the ground,” Castiel demanded. He looked at Dean, his eyes bright over his bandana. It was one of the few times Dean had seen Castiel look genuinely excited without a mocking look in his eyes. _So that’s what it takes,_ Dean thought. An opportunity to rob someone. “Don’t you think your shot was a bit off?” 

“Wasn’t aiming to kill.” Dean watched as the driver moved to climb off the side of the wagon next to Castiel. “But I will if he tries anything,” he added, with a warning look at the man. 

Blood ran down the driver’s neck and he was breathing hard, moving slowly. With a roll of his eyes, Castiel grabbed his collar and hastened his descent by yanking him off the seat. The man landed sprawled on the ground with a groan. 

“Sit,” Castiel directed, motioning with his pistol. 

The man slowly sat, one hand still clutching his ear, and Castiel dismounted. Dean swung off Dusty and climbed into the wagon to look through the bags and crates. At a cry of pain, he glanced over to see Castiel had kicked the driver in the face, knocking him out cold on the ground. 

Castiel looked up at him and shrugged in response to Dean’s questioning look. “Didn’t want to have to keep an eye on him.” He clambered up into the wagon with Dean and pulled out his knife to cut open a burlap sack. 

“Aha!” Dean exclaimed with a grin upon finding a few small bottles of whiskey. He tried to pry open a crate, then, when it wouldn’t budge, stomped on it to splinter the wood and reveal packages of dried meats.

“Hurry up before anyone comes along,” Castiel said. He clicked his tongue, motioning to his horse. Halo stepped closer to the wagon and Castiel started shoving supplies and foodstuffs in his saddlebags. 

Dean grabbed a bag of ground coffee, a package of dried fruit, crackers. Hearing a groan, he looked over the wagon's side at the driver who shifted where he lay and blinked heavily. 

“Time to go,” Castiel said. He mounted Halo from the back of the wagon and Dean jumped down next to the man.

His left ear was a bloody and mangled mess. With a wince, he opened his eyes fully. “Please, don’t,” he started, raising a hand entreatingly to Dean. 

Dean grabbed his collar, hauled him up a bit, then slammed his head back on the ground. The driver’s eyes rolled back and he stilled, unconscious once again. 

“Should buy us more time,” Dean said, looking up at Castiel. Castiel nodded approvingly and impatiently snapped his reins. 

Dean swung up on Dusty. The land around them was still quiet and empty of any other travelers. They’d left the wagon a wreckage, cartons and crates overturned, hay strewn among the miscellaneous foodstuffs they couldn’t fit in their packs. With a backwards glance at the wagon and the driver, Dean rode off after Castiel. 

•◊•◊•◊•

They feasted that night under the starry sky, next to the quietly rippling river. 

“Don’t see why I ever paid for this shit a day in my life,” Dean commented, once again uncorking one of the bottles of whiskey he had pilfered from the wagon.

Castiel dipped a rag in oil and wiped the muzzle of his six-shooter. “You’re gonna finish every damn bottle if you’re not careful."

“You’re not drinkin any, I gotta get rid of it somehow.” He waggled the bottle so the liquid splashed inside. “‘Sides, it takes plenty of this shit to have any effect on me.” 

Taking a long pull, he leaned against the log along their backs and gazed out at the shadowy trees lining the river. He could see glimpses of the moving water, small splashes glinting in the moonlight. Next to him, Castiel focused on cleaning his gun, fingers stained with dark oil. He seemed to be in a slightly better mood—which meant, Dean supposed, that Castiel wasn’t shooting at him. He’d take what he could get.

The silence between them, which Castiel seemed perfectly comfortable with, made Dean antsy. Against his better judgement, he tried to make conversation. “What were you doin before we started ridin together? I mean, recently. Didn’t seem like you’d had any work in a long while.”

Castiel didn’t even give him the courtesy of a look to acknowledge he had spoken. 

“Come on, Cas. We really not gonna talk the whole time we ride together?” 

Rubbing a cloth against the rear cylinder, Castiel said, “I don’t feel inclined to get personal with you.” 

_Bedding me seems rather personal,_ Dean thought. Aloud, though, he said, “Alright, how’s this? I tell you one thing about myself, you tell me one thing about yourself. You ain’t gotta spill any secrets, alright?” At least this way, they’d both have ammunition to throw at each other in arguments. 

Head tilted, Castiel studied him. “Why you gotta know anything about me?” 

“I don’t. I don’t give a rat’s ass about you personally, just tryin to make conversation.” 

“Fine.” Castiel leaned back against the log. “You first.” 

“Um, well… before I met you, I wasn’t travelin anywhere in particular. Just goin from town to town, livin from day to day.”

“Some life.”

“I don’t mind it, I’m used to it. I like being on my own.” Dean picked up the whiskey bottle, then set it down again. “And, what, your life was so much better? You didn’t even have a saddle when I met you.”

“It was only temporary.” Dean snorted and Castiel returned to cleaning his six-shooter. “I rode with that gang for 'bout two and a half years, up until a month ago, and then I rode on my own. Rolled a few drunks, robbed a few random travelers. That’s about it.”

“How’d you get out of hangin when you got arrested?”

“I was never arrested.” Dean raised an eyebrow. “The gang I rode with wanted to go through with a foolish bank robbery, so I left. Turns out they got caught, and I rode free.”

“Smart move. Why’d you start ridin with them in the first place?”

Castiel glanced up at him. “I believe it’s your turn to share something.”

“Ah, see, now you’re interested.” He grinned at Castiel over the bottle. “Whaddaya wanna know?”

Castiel studied him, eyes narrowed, and Dean started to regret giving Castiel the opportunity. “Who’s Bobby?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Dean muttered. He knew what letter Castiel was referencing, the one Sam had written to tell him Bobby had died. 

He didn’t have to answer, but he did anyway, because he knew avoiding the question would only make Castiel pry more. “Old family friend. Our pa traveled around a lot when Sammy and I were young, so we stayed with Bobby much of the time.” 

A small twinge of regret pierced him at the thought. Sam’s letter had arrived weeks after Bobby was dead and buried because Dean never stayed in one place for long and Sam didn’t know where to send any messages. Perhaps he should be glad that the letter was late, that he didn’t have to make the choice of attending the funeral, of seeing Sam. Or maybe the regret he was feeling was the knowledge that he would’ve stayed away even if he had learned of Bobby’s death in time.

He watched the firelight glinting off the metal of the pistol Castiel was cleaning. So, Castiel wanted to ask the uncomfortable questions? “How about you and Jimmy? You both a part of that gang together?”

“No.” Castiel set his gun on top of the rag on the ground.

“That’s it? Think I’ve shared plenty more than you have.”

“That’s your own damn fault.”

“Come on, Cas. Where’d Jimmy end up? He not want to join the gang with you?”

Castiel wiped his hands on a free rag. “You best stop talking before you regret it.”

Dean rolled his eyes and took another pull of whiskey from the bottle. His head felt nearly as light as the bottle. A comfortable, familiar feeling. Not enough to make him too reckless, just to slow his thoughts and inhibitions a little.

Setting his gun aside by his saddlebags, Castiel stoked the fire. The burst of flames illuminated his profile—strong jawline, a faint scar across the shallow dip of his chin. Dean wondered what he'd need to do to get Castiel to fuck him again. Start another fight, no doubt. He wasn't too keen on the idea, knowing it could too easily fall out of his favor.

“You rather like this outlaw life, don’t you?” he asked Castiel instead, remembering the way his eyes had shone as he held a gun to the wagon driver’s head. 

“And you don’t?” Castiel leaned back on his elbows, soles of his boots directed towards the fire. He looked up at Dean.

Dean shrugged. “Don’t feel one way or another about it.” 

“Come on, Winchester,” Castiel insisted. “You’re telling me you don’t enjoy it, not even a bit?”

“I enjoy the money.” He held up the bottle. “Free whiskey. Wish I could get it easier.” 

Castiel looked back at the fire. “Way I figure, life fucks all of us over, may as well try to get ahead with what we can.” 

“Damn.” Dean lifted the bottle of whiskey to his mouth, asking, “Whatever happened to you?” 

“Oh, you’re telling me your life’s been all sunshine and roses? Never felt like nothing good ever lasts?” A log crumbled and Castiel nudged a burning stick back into the flames with the heel of his boot. “You’re mighty lucky then.” 

“Didn’t say that.” Dean set down the bottle. “It’s your own damn fault though if you ever thought life was anythin different. Know what I’ve learned? No one ever sticks around. Soon as you accept that, you start expectin a lot less and get on with life.” 

Castiel studied the fire. “Reckon you’re right.”

“I am. Sooner or later everyone packs up and leaves. No sense in tryin to avoid it, tryin to be somethin you’re not, tryin to make them stay. They ain’t loyal, they ain’t gonna stick around anyway. Better off on your own.”

“God, and I thought I was a cynic.”

Dean laughed. He’d finished the bottle of whiskey and he held it up now, looking disinterestedly at the way the firelight shone through the warped glass. Everyone left; Sam, Lisa, his ma, his pa. 

Reaching for his gun belt draped over the log, Dean drew his gun, threw the bottle, and fired at it. The shot rang loud in the night, prompting startled huffs from the horses.

He missed, the bottle landing in the dirt with a thud, and Castiel laughed. A low pleasant sound, even at Dean’s expense. 

“What, you can do better?” Dean asked, retrieving the bottle. 

In response, Castiel sat up and grabbed his gun. At his nod, Dean threw the bottle into the air and Castiel’s shot echoed in the stillness. 

The bottle fell intact to the ground and Dean leaned forward to grab it. “Glad you didn’t miss yesterday and put a bullet through my head instead of my hat.” 

“It’s too damn dark,” Castiel complained, tossing his gun aside. 

“Excuses, excuses.” Dean held up the bottle. “If I make this, you’ll buy me a new hat.” 

“I’m not agreeing to that.”

Shrugging, Dean tossed the bottle up again and shot at it, this time hitting his mark, the glass shattering to the ground. He whooped, his voice echoing off the trees. 

Castiel shook his head, though Dean thought he saw a smile tugging at his mouth. Grinning, Dean settled back against the log. His eyes were drawn up to the leafy tree cover where small glimpses of stars peeked through the dark branches. Reminded him of plenty of nights on the road with his pa, with Sam. If he kept his eyes on the night sky, he could forget he was sitting next to a clear-eyed, sullen outlaw. 

Then he heard Castiel shift and lowered his head. Castiel had his knees pulled up, head hung low, but after a moment, he raised his head and looked at Dean. The orange glow of the firelight wavered across his face, lit his eyes. Something in them, something in the way they could be so open, yet so guarded held Dean's gaze. 

Before he had the thought formed fully in his mind to move, to take action, they were crashing into each other, their mouths meeting in a hard kiss, all stubble and teeth. He didn’t know who had kissed who first, but it was Castiel who broke it first, just as quickly as it had started, one hand already unbuttoning his pants. 

Dean grabbed his arm. “Slow down, Cas.” He tried to touch Castiel’s face, but Castiel knocked his hand away.

“I’m already doing this against my better judgement.”

“You sure know how to set the mood,” Dean grumbled, though he complied, unbuttoning his pants. “Don’t you have anything that’ll make it go easier, at least?”

“You either get it this way or not at all.”

“Fuck you.” The words caught in his throat as he looked up to see Castiel pumping his already half-erect cock. “Just, dammit, hold on.” He sucked on two of his fingers, then reached between his legs and stretched himself open. His face warmed, knowing Castiel was watching, but he wasn’t prepared for the look in Castiel’s eyes when he glanced back. Dark and roving, intent on the slide of Dean’s hand. Dean couldn't help a shudder.

Fearful Castiel would grow impatient and finish himself off on his own, he hurried through his preparations. “Good enough,” he muttered after three fingers and pulled his hand away. “Get on with it.”

He didn’t have to tell Castiel twice—though Castiel did ease into him slower than the night prior. Dean nearly bit his tongue off trying to stifle the groan that rose in his throat. Other than that, it was just like their last coupling—rough and quick, a complicated mix of pain and pleasure. And then over before Dean was ready. Castiel’s hips slammed forward as he came with a grunt, and finishing, he started to pull out. 

“No,” Dean protested, reaching back to grab Castiel’s thigh and stop him. To his credit, Castiel tried but went soft. Pulling out, he reached around and grabbed Dean’s cock, jerked him off, his hand rough and calloused, until Dean came with a stuttering groan.

He tried to catch his breath, bent over on his hands and knees. By the time he sat back, Castiel was buttoning himself up and standing. “Your gun sure goes off quick,” Dean griped, pulling up his pants. 

Castiel didn’t seem to hear. “We’re not doing this again.” 

“What? Why?” Dean asked. But Castiel only shook his head and went to his bedroll. “Of fuckin course,” Dean muttered. 

Grabbing another bottle of whiskey, he opened it and drank from it until his throat burned and set him to coughing. He glanced at Castiel. The sonuvabitch was laying down, wrapped in his blanket like nothing had just happened. But what had Dean expected? He was lucky enough to have gotten Castiel to fuck him again. Not that he was enjoying it very much, but he hadn’t had very high expectations in the first place. 

Shaking his head, Dean leaned back on the log and stared back up at the sky. And this was about as good as it got in his experience. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, he reckoned, though he didn’t think he could be blamed for hoping Castiel would show a little more enthusiasm.

Maybe he should just be content that he’d been lucky enough to not only find a partner to help him rob a mail coach, but also fuck him, sometimes. Then again, it seemed his luck had run out if Castiel truly meant what he’d said, that they weren’t going to do “this” again.

_Yup,_ he thought ruefully. Looks like tonight truly was as good as it was gonna get.


	5. Tactics and Tells

After several long, quiet hours of riding throughout the morning and afternoon of the next day, the monotony was broken when Dean and Castiel rode into a small clearing. Stumps showed where trees had been felled to make room for a cabin with a chimney. It’d clearly been years since the last inhabitant; the front porch was missing several boards and the roof dipped over one corner. Tall grass grew inside a three-walled stable to the right of the dilapidated cabin. 

“May as well stay here for the night,” Castiel said, pulling his horse to a stop. Dean shrugged. Beat sleeping outside, unless the inside of the cabin was really terrible. 

The stable walls were sturdy, so Dean trampled down the grass and led Dusty inside. After unsaddling her, he grabbed his saddlebags and approached the cabin, its roof ablaze with the light of the setting sun. The porch steps miraculously held up under his feet, and he cautiously pushed open the front door. No wild animals stirred inside so he stepped into the dusty, stale-aired interior. 

A roughly hewn table and chairs crowded the left side of the room, while a small, cast-iron stove and a shelf holding a pitcher and dishware filled the opposite side. A doorway on the back wall led into a smaller room with a bed, a window, and a chest sitting on the floor. 

“I claim the bed,” Dean called, tossing his saddlebags onto the mattress. A cloud of dust rose and swirled in the pale light of the window. Besides the dust and dirt, the cabin and its furniture were still solid, and Dean didn’t see any snakes, which was a plus. 

“You can’t have the bed all to yourself,” Castiel said, appearing in the doorway. 

“I can and I will.” 

“I’m too fucking tired for this shit,” Castiel muttered, tossing his pack onto the ground. He'd been silent all day, brooding, so Dean wasn't surprised to hear him say, “I’m going to sleep.” 

“Sweet dreams,” Dean said, pausing before he left the room to add, “And if you try to get on that bed, I will drag you off and make you sleep outside.” 

Castiel flipped him off and Dean called him an uncharitable name. Too hungry to wait to build a fire, Dean ate cold corndodgers and dried jerky at the table while Castiel went to sleep. Outside, past the open door, the woods glowed with the last sunrays of the day before turning dark and somber in the night. 

After finishing eating, Dean stepped to the doorway and looked out at the stable, where he caught glimpses of Dusty’s tail whisking away flies. Despite its run-down appearance, this homestead wasn't so bad. He'd certainly squatted in places less desirable, more infested with bugs and critters.

At one time, he’d had distant plans of living in a place like this—well, cleaner and more put together. Staking out a portion of land, building a home, settling down after a life on the road. ‘Course, he’d also dreamt of sharing a place with someone. But he’d fucked up that dream beyond repair. If he was lucky, he’d live a few more years of drinking, gambling, and whoring before dying quick and sweet in a bar fight. That was more his style anyway.

The first star sparked to life in the sky and Dean leaned on the doorframe and watched others join it. If he and Castiel made it big in Evanston, though, things could be different. No more relying on drunk, lousy poker players to make money, no more creaky, cramped hotel rooms and going hungry. He could travel anywhere he wanted, to the East even. Or further west, to California, to Stanford. 

He couldn’t deny he was curious to see how Sam was getting along. And he’d sure look a lot less like a screwup with some money. Though he wasn’t so sure he’d be welcome even then.

Dean straightened off the doorway. No use in thinking that way. With his luck, other outlaws would get to the mail coach first and get away with everything before him and Castiel could. Like he’d told Castiel, he took life one day at a time. No use in planning, getting his hopes up when nothing was certain.

Shutting the front door, he went into the bedroom where the moonlight through the window revealed Castiel sleeping on the floor against the wall opposite the bed. His chest rose remembering Castiel’s hands on him last night. Castiel was addictive, he’d give him that. Maybe it was because Castiel did everything he could to push him away—threw every insult he could at him, even threatened his life—and yet he was still here, enticing. But God knew Castiel was an asshole, that he annoyed the shit out of Dean any moment he was not fucking him, and sometimes even then.

Lighting a candle to see by, Dean sat down on the bed and pulled off his vest in the low, warm light. He glanced at his saddlebags and stared for several moments, telling himself not to grab it, not to take out the leather pouch and slide out the familiar letters—but he did so anyway. 

Grabbing the candle and a bottle of whiskey, he went into the kitchen, sat at the table, and rifled through the crinkling pages. He’d long since puzzled through the words and committed them to memory. One—he could hear it in Sam’s voice—read,

 _I’m growing fond of Stanford. Business has been going well and I’m meeting good folk, not the uptight, stuffy ones you told me I’d find—_

Setting aside the letter, Dean scanned the others for the handwriting he knew so well. He ignored the one that started, simply, _Dean_ , and began to read instead the one ripped and creased from frequent reading. 

_My darling Dean,_ it began, and he imagined Lisa sitting at her desk by the window in her room to write the words, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and touching the pages softly with the pads of her fingers.

 _How I miss you so. I wish you had not left without a word. It has been such torture hearing the way my father speaks of you and hearing the spiteful rumors in town. But I don’t hold any bitterness against you for leaving so suddenly, please believe me. My heart breaks for you and Sam and the shock of your father’s death saddens me deeply. I want nothing more than to see you, to comfort you—_

The words, which rang in his mind in Lisa’s voice, suddenly became distasteful, and Dean shoved the papers back into their pouch. 

Going back into the bedroom, he got in bed, sneezing as he lifted up the blankets. He shook the lumpy, dusty pillow out over the floor and smacked it a couple of times for good measure, not giving a damn if Castiel woke at the noise. But Castiel remained still, a dim figure on the floor. 

He looked so disarming while asleep. Knowing Castiel took personal pleasure in insulting him didn’t stop the fact Dean felt a shiver down his spine recalling the night prior. 

_We’re not doing this again,_ Castiel had said. Was that _really_ all Dean was going to get? Two hasty, harsh fucks? What would happen if he went down on Castiel now—the blue-eyed man waking with a soft moan to Dean between his legs? That’d be quite a way to die, shot between the eyes while taking another man down his throat. 

Deciding he’d rather not go out in such a manner, Dean settled down and faced the opposite wall. It was for the better, for both he and Castiel, that their actions the night prior weren’t repeated. Better to follow his rule of not going back to a casual hookup. 

Though, he was willing enough to break that rule with Castiel. For one, Castiel was the only one available right now; two, they’d be seeing a lot more of each other; and three, Dean wasn’t going to let their only hookups be one where Castiel called the shots, inflicting something more akin to a punishment than pleasure. With those thoughts, he fell asleep. 

•◊•◊•◊•

He rose late the next day and when he walked into the kitchen, Castiel said, not turning from the stove where he was making coffee, “We should give the horses a day to rest.” 

Dean said, “Fine with me,” and they left it at that. 

It might’ve been their most civil conversation yet, Dean reflected later in the day as he brushed down Dusty’s coat. She nickered appreciatively, nudging Dean’s arm with her nose. Despite the crampedness of the cabin, he and Castiel had successfully avoided further conversation throughout the day. Around noon, Castiel had gone off hunting and bagged two birds they’d eat for supper. Dean had nearly blown his brains out from boredom, roaming around the cabin and surrounding woods. It appeared that when not arguing or threatening each other, they didn't have much to speak about, especially with how reticent Castiel remained about himself. Not that Dean was eager to be opening up either—he knew better than that now. 

“What’re you looking at?” he asked Castiel’s horse, Halo. The black horse tossed his head. Castiel had been in the stable when Dean came over earlier, unsaddling Halo after returning from hunting. He'd only glanced at Dean before focusing again on Halo. If Castiel was a dick to everyone else, Dean had only seen him be gentle with his horse. Dean’s pa had once told him that the best way to judge a man was by the way he treated his horse. If that was true, Castiel was as pure-hearted as one got, but, then again, Dean didn’t put much stake in what his pa said anyway. More likely, Castiel was only capable of showing kindness to those who couldn’t talk back. 

Slapping Dusty’s flank, Dean walked back to the cabin. Castiel was carrying a bucket and rag to the water pump at the corner of the porch. 

“Whatcha doin?” Dean asked. 

“Can’t I wash up without you being nosy?” Castiel snapped. 

“Sheesh. Didn’t sleep very well last night? Floor not very comfortable?” 

“Your turn tonight.” Castiel lifted the pump handle and pushed it down with an abrasive creak. 

Dean stepped up onto the porch. “Not a chance.” 

Using pages from a faded, yellowed cookbook and dry sticks from outside, he started a fire in the stove and poured a can of beans into a pot. The smell of roasting meat filled the cabin and Dean looked inside a pot at the two birds cooking inside.

As the beans simmered, he thumbed through the cookbook—he counted seven different recipes using a can of beans as the main ingredient. He threw the cookbook onto the table and, glancing up, realized that at this angle, he could see Castiel through the window. Castiel, who, at the moment was stripped naked, running a rag over his arms outside at the far side of the cabin. 

Seeing Castiel like this—bare, sunlight catching the water dripping from his arms—made Dean’s chest rise in a sudden intake of breath and sent a flush through his whole body. Satisfied Castiel couldn’t see him at this vantage point, he let himself watch as Castiel bathed himself. He realized this was his first time seeing Castiel fully naked—he’d barely even gotten a glimpse of Castiel’s cock the two times Castiel had fucked him. Well, now he could see all he wanted.

He wasn’t often made speechless by another’s looks and he prided himself on not being picky when picking a partner to shack up with for the night. He couldn’t be picky when traveling through small towns, where a whorehouse meant three girls to choose from and saloons were filled with wild-eyed men coming away from three months on the road. 

So it was a pleasant surprise that he happened to be traveling with the finest looking man he’d ever seen. ‘Course, he might’ve been able to guess as much from Castiel’s piercing blue eyes, the angle of his collarbone, the long, slender fingers Dean wanted inside him, but seeing him now, all of him, was more confirmation than he'd expected. 

Castiel ran the rag over his chest, and water trickled down his stomach to the dark hair above his cock hanging between his thighs. Dean pressed his fingers into the table at the painful pleasure tightening his stomach and roamed his eyes over Castiel’s length, his thighs. Muscles corded along Castiel’s arms as he crouched down to dip the rag into the bucket and squeeze the excess water from it. 

Dean wanted to see him take himself into his hands—really, wanted to see Castiel pleasure himself and become erect, tilt his head back in pleasure...

The smell of burning tore him from his shameless voyeurism and he looked back at the stove.

“Shit!” Pulling the pot from the heat, he grabbed a rag and wiped at the beans overflowing over the sides. A glance back at the window showed Castiel buttoning up his shirt _. Shit._

Stirring the pot, trying to scrape the burnt beans from the bottom, he pushed down his erection with one hand before Castiel could come over and realize he’d had an audience. 

Castiel walked inside fully dressed as Dean poured the lumpy beans into two bowls he’d found on the shelf. Sniffing the air, he asked, “You burning food in here?” 

Dean set the pot down with a clatter on the stove. “Take it or leave it.” Castiel grabbed a bowl and the pan with the cooked birds and sat at the table, hitching a shoulder to catch water trickling from his hair down his cheek. 

Realizing he was staring again, Dean grabbed a bag of biscuits and a jug of some sort of liquor he’d found on the shelf and sat across from Castiel. “You gonna cook supper one day?”

“Thought that was your job.” Castiel grabbed one of the biscuits and broke it in two, dipped one half into his bowl. 

“I ain’t some goddamn housewife.” Dean uncorked the jug and wrinkled his nose at the sharp, alcoholic fumes. “This shit can’t go bad, right?” He poured some into his cup and re-corked the jug.

Castiel shrugged and busied himself with eating. Dean tried to follow his example and focus on his food, but to no avail. Seeing Castiel bathe himself had only increased the desire burning hot inside him since Castiel had first fucked him. 

Unbidden, Sam’s voice rose in his memory, “think with your upstairs brain.” God, when would Sam ever stop hounding him? Then again, Dean found himself reasoning, Sam wouldn’t approve of one fucking thing he found himself doing nowadays, so what was one more bad decision? He might not give a shit about Castiel, whether he lived or died, got caught by a posse or ran free, but he wanted him inside him all the same. Would even take a repeat of two nights ago, just to feel Castiel’s hands, albeit roughly, on him. 

But he kept quiet during their supper, trying to ignore the way Castiel’s shirt stretched across his shoulders, how he licked a splash of food off his thumb. Finishing eating, Castiel stood and submerged his bowl in a bucket half-filled with water by the stove. Dean watched him shake water from his hands and wipe them on his trousers, his tongue wetting his bottom lip. 

Trying to disguise the shiver that tensed his shoulders, Dean walked past Castiel to the bucket and plunged his bowl into the water, trying not to think of Castiel standing in the sunlight, sliding his hand up the inside of his thigh, water trickling down his hand and leg in thin rivulets. 

Unaware of Dean’s inward struggle, Castiel brushed past him to go into the bedroom and it took all of Dean’s willpower to not grab him then and push him up against the wall, strip him down to the nakedness he’d been lusting over earlier.

Picking up his cup from the table, Dean went outside and sat on the porch, testing out several boards before finding a non-rotting one he could trust to hold his weight and not crumble beneath him. Why was he always falling into this shit? Castiel riled him up and Dean let him, cursed him out and resolved to hate him, then in no time at all, practically begged Castiel to fuck him. 

Shaking his head, he drank from his cup. Faint geese calls drew his eyes up to the sky where a v-formation of geese flew overhead, black shapes against the dark blue. Something rustled in the brush around the cabin, then ceased. It was peaceful, almost, sitting here. Dean was starting to think he should find somewhere else to squat after he and Castiel split up. Why did he always have to be on the road?

He wondered if his pa had ever missed living in the home he’d built when he married Dean’s ma. Dean only remembered a small farmhouse painted white and a large sprawling oak tree outside, if his faint memories could be trusted. He supposed it was the only true home he and Sam had lived in—their small apartment in Lawrence had never felt like much. Bobby's house, though... that had felt close to a home. 

His pa didn’t speak of that old farmhouse where Dean and Sam had been born, and Dean could only see glimpses in his mind of the rooms, the land, his ma. His pa didn’t speak of her either—not that Dean could blame him for his silence. And, anyway, Dean didn’t remember enough of her to truly feel her absence. All his life it had just been him, his pa, and Sam. Then it became just him and his pa, and finally, now, just him.

 _Some life,_ Castiel had said. Dean was inclined to agree. But it was his own—and things should be looking up soon. Rob the mail coach, get rich, and then… Dean didn’t know. Back to much of the same, most likely. Drifting from town to town, as he had been doing for the past year and a half since leaving Lawrence. It all felt suddenly very tiresome. 

Draining his cup, Dean went inside and shut the front door, cloaking the main room in darkness. He stepped into the soft candlelight of the bedroom. Castiel sat on the bed cross-legged, reading, of all things. He glanced at Dean, then back down at his book. “I get the bed tonight."

“Nope,” Dean said. “Tough luck.” He sat down at the foot of the bed and started pulling off his boots for good measure. 

Castiel studied him before speaking, “Fine. We’ll both sleep on the bed.” His stare dared Dean to protest, explain why, exactly, he wouldn’t want to lie next to him, and Dean knew he had no good reason. 

He shrugged, relenting. Marking his spot by folding down the corner of a page, Castiel closed his book and set it aside on the floor. “Whatcha readin?” Dean asked, curious despite himself.

“A Study in Scarlet.” Castiel kicked off his boots. “Have you read it?”

Dean snorted. “I’m not much for readin. Seems a lazy pastime.” Something Sam was fond of and had gotten mocked plenty for by both Dean and their pa.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “You would say that.”

Unfortunately, Dean couldn’t come up with any retort because it was at that moment that Castiel stood to pull off his shirt—casually, like he wasn’t personally torturing Dean by being the most infuriatingly attractive man Dean had ever laid eyes on. Just his luck that he’d find himself stuck in a bed with the blue-eyed son of a bitch. 

_Well, two can play at this game,_ Dean thought and stripped off his shirt too, wondering if it’d be overkill to pull off his pants as well. If Castiel looked over, he’d be able to tell Dean was half hard already, but he was preoccupying himself with folding his clothes and placing them in his saddlebags.

When he turned back to the bed, though, he noticed Dean staring and cocked his head. “You got something to say, Winchester?” 

Dean ran his eyes up Castiel’s annoyingly clothed legs, over his bare waist and chest, up to his eyes. “Nope,” he said, holding Castiel’s gaze. 

Castiel's eyes narrowed a little and Dean tried to fight back a satisfied smile. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Why, is somethin wrong?” 

Castiel seemed to fight internally for a response, then huffed and came to the bed, motioning for Dean to slide over. “I’m going to bed, Dean. So quit whatever game you’re playing.” 

Shrugging, Dean got under the covers, taking the side of the bed closest to the wall. Castiel slid in under the covers next to him. Dean looked at the muscles along his back as he reached over to blow the candle out. 

All at once, they were lying in a pale darkness. Dean looked up at the shutterless window above the bed, clearly defined from the darkness of the walls by the moonlight coming through it. When Castiel settled down next to him, Dean left his hand lying in between them and it grazed Castiel’s hip. Castiel shifted and rolled over to face away from him. 

A part of Dean told him not to push his luck, but he was too invested to back out now. Lifting his hand, he touched Castiel’s back lightly with a finger. He thought he felt Castiel tense, but Castiel also didn’t speak or move away.

Since that was as close to encouragement as Dean reckoned he’d get, he ran his finger down Castiel’s spine, stopping at his waistband and trailing up to his hip bone. He felt Castiel’s stomach draw inward as he slowly slid his hand down his thigh. 

Castiel was too still, which meant he was trying not to react to Dean’s touch. Biting his lip, Dean grazed his hand over Castiel’s clothed cock—hard, as he'd figured. Holding his breath, waiting for Castiel to turn on him and attack him, he groped him, eliciting a quiet sound from Castiel that fueled his own erection. 

Since Castiel remained otherwise silent, Dean pushed the base of his palm against Castiel’s cock, groping his balls though his pants, and this time was rewarded with a stifled moan. Emboldened, Dean pressed himself to Castiel’s back, pressing his hardness to his ass.

Before he could do anything else, though, Castiel grabbed his wrist and pulled it away from himself. He rolled over, still holding Dean’s wrist in his hand, and looked at Dean for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. 

“What’s wrong, Cas?” Dean asked. He smiled innocently. “You were just startin to sound like one of those cheap whores you were talkin about.” 

Castiel’s eyes flared and his chest rose and fell, but he didn’t speak, only let go of Dean’s wrist. 

Keeping eye contact, Dean slipped his hand down under his own pants and grabbed his cock, biting back a satisfied grunt as he palmed himself. He grinned at the way Castiel’s eyes widened in the low light. 

“Fuck you,” Castiel said, and Dean pushed him down onto his back, straddling him before he could get up. Castiel shifted under him, his eyes flicking to meet Dean’s before looking away, down where Dean unbuttoned his pants. He didn’t protest the action, and Dean lifted his hips so Castiel could then pull off his pants and drawers. 

When he settled back down, Dean looked over Castiel’s naked body. So much more intimate than his spying out the window. Castiel was staring at a point over Dean’s shoulder, but he didn’t move, his face flushed but his eyes as steady as ever. Dean leaned down and tried to kiss him, but Castiel turned his head aside. 

Going to the next best thing, Dean mouthed under Castiel’s jaw, trying to mark his skin. “Why won’t you let me kiss you when you’re sober?” he murmured, but Castiel remained silent, staring at the wall. “You still want this, Cas?” He ran his hand over Castiel’s thigh.

"Quit talking and hurry it up," Castiel finally spoke. He lifted his hips, grinding his cock up against Dean’s groin. 

Dean grinned. Pushing himself up, he looked down at Castiel’s body, trailed his fingers over the fair skin of Castiel’s chest. Soft shadows and faint moonlight from the window covered his body. There was too much he wanted to do. Castiel’s chest rose and fell, and Dean turned his attention down, to the dark trail of hair from Castiel’s navel to his hard cock, and decided to start there. 

Sinking down, he pressed his mouth to the dampness of Castiel’s inner thigh, ran his tongue over the soft hairs. Castiel shifted and moaned softly, and Dean ghosted his tongue up Castiel’s length before taking his cock in his mouth. 

“Shit,” Castiel breathed, and tugged at Dean's hair. His hips jerked as Dean pressed his tongue to his cock and encircled his fingers around its base. He wanted Castiel to thrust into his mouth, but he could feel Castiel’s legs tremble as he tried to still himself. Dragging his hands up over Castiel’s chest, he lightly pinched one of Castiel’s nipples, making Castiel groan louder. 

Dean kept it up, sliding his mouth down and up Castiel’s cock as he tweaked Castiel’s nipples. When Castiel’s hips shook in constant, quick jerks, Dean pulled off from him and returned to his thighs. Castiel bent his knees, straightened them, whined and pressed his thighs to the sides of Dean’s face. Dean couldn’t stop a moan against Castiel’s warm skin, his own erection pressing uncomfortably against the fabric of his jeans.

Looking up, he realized Castiel’s eyes were screwed shut, so he pinched the skin of his inner thigh. Castiel flinched, his eyes blinking open, and Dean said, “Look at me.” Castiel stared up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in quick jerks, and Dean repeated, an edge to his voice, “Look at me, Cas, or I’ll stop.”

Castiel lowered his eyes to meet his and Dean’s smirk at his obedience disappeared with a tug in his chest at the softness in them—no challenge, no piercing look, only some vulnerability he’d never seen that made him want to shrink back, realizing he was the cause of undoing the harsh barrier Castiel usually put up. 

Coming to himself, he said, “That’s better,” to hide the way he’d paused, staring into Castiel’s eyes. 

“Fuck you,” Castiel said, but his voice was strained. Grabbing Dean’s hair, he tugged his head down to his cock, and Dean felt his own cock jerk at the pleading nature of the action. 

“So needy,” he teased. He ran his tongue over the head of Castiel’s cock and Castiel shuddered. “I saw you earlier, Cas,” he whispered, lifting himself up to kiss under Castiel’s jaw, along his collarbone. “I watched you, as you washed yourself.” Castiel groaned, and Dean ran his hands up his side, over his ribs. “I watched you touch yourself and thought about all the things I wanted to do to you.”

His mouth touched cool metal and he lifted his head to see the chain around Castiel’s neck, the cross necklace. He grinned and tugged at it. “Seems kinda sacrilegious to be wearin this right now, doesn’t it?” 

Castiel, predictably, didn’t share his amusement. Putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder, he tried to push him back down to his cock. Dean grabbed his wrist. “You’ve rushed me plenty, Cas, I’m gonna take my time.” 

Castiel shook his head. “Get off me.” His voice shook as he looked up at Dean.

Dean’s stomach dropped. “Cas,” he started. Putting both hands on Dean’s shoulders now, Castiel pushed him away and Dean got off him, rolling over onto his side on the bed. “Fuckin tease,” he muttered. 

He watched as Castiel stood and pulled on his pants. His hands were shaking and Dean grew nervous despite himself. “Cas, what’s wrong?” he ventured. Castiel didn’t even glance at him before walking out of the room.

Rolling over onto his back, Dean stared up at the ceiling. “Fuck,” he whispered. He heard the front door open and waited for it to slam shut, but the slam never came. Torn between a desire to address the low ache between his legs and to see what the hell was wrong with Castiel now, he finally stood and left the bedroom. 

The front door was cracked open and he could see Castiel sitting on the front porch. Stepping quietly, he went to the door and stood there, trying to decide what, if anything, he should say. Castiel sat with his head bowed, fingers interlaced over the back of his neck. Dean crossed his arms against the night chill.

“I don’t want to fucking talk to you,” Castiel said, his voice muffled from his position. 

“Not even to explain what the hell’s goin on with you?” 

A long silence punctuated by cricket chirps stretched between them and Dean ran his eyes up Castiel’s curved spine, over his skin pale in the moonlight, to his dark hair over his fingers. Castiel pulled his hands away from his neck and lifted his head, looked out over the yard. 

Shifting, Dean leaned a shoulder against the door frame, the wood rough against his bare skin. “I don’t know what to make of you, Castiel,” he started, and fell silent. 

“Then stop trying to figure me out,” Castiel replied, his words faint. He ducked his head again and Dean watched him take the chain of his necklace between his fingers, run his hand down to the cross charm. 

Sighing, Dean shook his head and pushed off from the doorframe. “Suit yourself.” 

Castiel didn’t respond and Dean returned to the bedroom. He lay down in the dark and tried to ignore the low simmer of heat in his groin. The brisk night air had only slightly cooled the heat coursing through his veins and now his heartbeat quickened again at the memory of Castiel’s skin against his, the way he had shifted and whined under Dean’s touch. The sonuvabitch had been so agreeable, which made it even more exasperating that his mood had so suddenly shifted.

He wanted to take himself in his hand, but he worried Castiel would come back and find him, so he just lay there, burning, both cursing Castiel and worrying over the reason why Castiel left. 

It shouldn’t bother him so much; he knew he should just let it go. Castiel was stubborn, burdened with something he would never voice to Dean. But it was akin to sitting across from someone he didn’t know at a game of poker, studying them to learn their tactics, their tells. An intense interest and passion for a short time, then beating them, playing dirty if he had to, and moving on to the next game. Castiel was his opponent now and Dean knew that before they parted ways he would lose interest in him. But for now… Dean wasn’t going to fold before the game was over.


	6. Win Some, Lose Some

_The world was on fire and no one could save me but you_

_It's strange what desire will make foolish people do_

_Wicked Game - Chris Isaac_

•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•

Dean and Castiel left the cabin early the next morning to continue on their way to Evanston. It seemed there was an unspoken rule they now followed: whatever happened the night before, don’t speak of it in the morning. Castiel had come back to bed late last night; Dean knew because he’d woken up when the bed creaked and dipped under Castiel’s weight. He was willing to bet Castiel hadn’t fallen asleep right away, but had only laid there still like Dean had. 

By midday, they neared Evanston, breaking out of the woods to follow Bear River’s course. Railroad tracks ran to their right along with camps for workers. Several ponds sat between large buildings where Dean had heard ice was stored and put on trains headed to the East. 

The town spread out before them in several bustling streets. When Dean had passed through a few weeks ago, he’d only stayed one night, preferring to stick to smaller towns with less law. Now that he had more money in his pocket, however, he found himself eager to be back. Several saloons and gambling halls lined the street they rode down, along with an opera house, an apothecary, and a brothel where he knew he’d end up sooner or later if Castiel kept being an obstinate son of a bitch. 

He and Castiel paid to leave their horses at a livery and chose a three-story building with the name Palace Hotel for their stay. The main doors opened onto a spacious foyer where a middle-aged woman sat behind a desk. A wide doorway opened onto a dining room to their left, another doorway revealed a crowded parlor to their right, and a wide staircase rose behind the woman.

“Afternoon,” she greeted them and pulled off her glasses, letting them hang by a chain around her neck. “Two rooms?” 

“One,” Dean said, and in his periphery saw Castiel glance at him. He hadn’t planned to be so upfront about what he was expecting, but if Castiel didn’t know what he was after by now, he was more stupid than Dean thought. 

The hotel clerk’s eye twitched. “I have plenty of rooms available.” 

“No,” Castiel spoke up, as if buoyed by her challenge. “We’ll take one room.” 

“We’re brothers,” Dean said, and Castiel shot him a look. Dean grinned. 

After paying for a week's worth of room and board, they headed to the room the clerk directed them to, down a hallway off the foyer. Dean glanced in the dining room as they passed and saw waiters setting the tables, lining silverware next to dishes on white tablecloths.

“Brothers?” Castiel said when he shut the door. 

“Think she bought it?” Dean dropped his saddlebags on the floor and sunk down on the bed. Tossing his hat aside, he lay on his back, arms crossed behind his head. “Finally, someplace comfortable to sleep.” He looked around the room at the vanity and washstand, the small mirror hanging on the blue wallpapered walls. He was either gonna thank himself later for pulling this stunt—requesting one room—or regret it all. It didn’t matter anyway; if Castiel was in one of his moods, Dean would get his own room, he had money enough. 

“Get your ass up,” Castiel said, smacking Dean’s knee with his hat. “I wanna eat.” 

Dean sat up. The thought crossed his mind of grabbing Castiel’s hand and pulling him down onto the bed, but he stood instead and followed Castiel out the door.

After supper in the hotel, where they were waited on by waitstaff and had a whole menu to choose from, Dean paid for a bath and cleaned himself of all the grime that a long week’s travel had built up. 

“God, I love this place,” he remarked, returning to their room. Castiel was shaving at the washstand, his shirt unbuttoned to hang open over his chest, his feet bare. “There was a guy who filled the bath with warm water. The towels they have, they’re actually soft.” He flopped down on the bed. “This mattress is comfortable.”

“Mhm.” Castiel ran his straight razor down his cheek.

“Right, you don’t get excited about anythin,” Dean complained. He’d half dressed after the bath, leaving his coat off and suspenders hanging down, and he threw his coat now onto his saddlebags across the small room. 

He glanced at Castiel, who held the handle of his razor between his fingers, clearing away the lather spread across his jaw. The same jawline and neck Dean had touched and kissed before Castiel pushed him away.

“When was the last time you stayed in a place like this?” Dean asked, unbuttoning his shirt, trying to distract himself from those thoughts.

“Couldn’t say.”

“Well, it’s been several weeks myself. Never could afford to stay at a hotel for long. Robbin this mail coach, though, that’ll set me up for a few good weeks.”

“Only a few weeks? If we do well enough, I can make it last a year.” Castiel splashed his blade in the washbasin before bringing it to his jaw again. “But, right, the gambling. You know, I’m starting to doubt you’re as good as you say you are.”

“You gotta lose some to win some. Sometimes lose a lot.” He kicked off his boots. “You should play against me, I’ll show you I’m not bluffin about my skills. They’ve kept me alive this long.”

“Hmm.” Castiel scraped the blade down from the line of his jaw, exposing a thin, white line Dean had noticed before. One of the many scars Castiel had on his body, though Dean wasn’t one to talk. 

“How’d you get that scar?” he asked.

He thought he noticed Castiel redden. “Not important,” Castiel answered, keeping his eyes on his own reflection as he continued shaving.

Here Castiel went again, being cryptic. “So, it’s not somethin excitin then,” Dean pressed. “Not some knife fight? Did some barber accidentally cut you?” 

“It was a fight.” 

“And?” Castiel finally glanced at him in the mirror. “I’m just trying to figure out the embarrassin part. Some angry whore did it? A child?” 

“Just some cowhand.” After a moment's pause, he added, "Benny."

“What he'd do?”

“He was irresponsible, reckless. I didn’t think I’d ever see any of those motherfuckers from Garyville again, was surprised they’re all still alive. They shouldn’t be, ‘least of all Benny—” He broke off. 

_Still a sore subject,_ Dean thought. He wondered what had caused that rift, but Castiel wasn't the easiest person to get along with; he’d probably made plenty of enemies easily enough.

“Why’d you ever quit that work?” he asked when Castiel remained silent. “Why didn’t you just find a different ranch if you hated everyone that much?”

“I’d worked on ranches and cattle drives for several years.” He rinsed his blade in the sink and it clanked against the porcelain. “Got tired of it. Wasn’t the same anymore.” He fell silent. 

Dean pulled back the covers on the bed and chose which side he wanted, sinking down to sit. “Sounds like tirin work. Never went on any cattle drives, but I joined a buffalo huntin expedition one summer.” He’d nearly forgotten. The year Sam had left for college, the bastard. Left him alone to deal with their pa—riding with him from town to town, chasing after him when he went off on his own. The first year Sam sent him a letter, because it was the first time they were ever apart. Dean had often thought about scratching out a reply, but anything he could think of to say about his own life sounded pathetic compared to Sam’s descriptions of Boston and his classes and friends.

Pushing those thoughts away, Dean continued, “Joined a team of hunters with my pa. I hated it. All that work, out in the middle of nowhere for months, hopin you got lucky and found a decent sized herd, then returnin and findin out all your work didn't amount to much because the price for hides had gone down. Reckon that’s why my pa never stuck with the work for long. Hustlin seemed a much better option to the both of us.”

“Seems you and your pa are similar.”

 _Are._ “Hardly,” Dean said, though the thought crossed his mind that Sam would say differently. “He was a tough sonuvabitch. His word was law, and if me or Sam stepped out of line, we knew it.” 

“That worked out well, didn’t it?” Dean caught Castiel's slight smile in the mirror. “You’re such an upstanding citizen.”

“Don’t know he was tryin to make me a lawful citizen. He had his own code of ethics.”

“Think robbing stagecoaches would fit his code?” 

Dean shrugged. Funny, this was probably the first time he’d pursued something without wondering how his pa would react. He could only imagine the way his pa would rail at him, telling him it was a stupid thing to do, to risk getting caught and hung.

“Probably not," he answered. "But, then again, nothin I ever did was good enough for him. He was always gettin annoyed, ditchin me and Sam to go off to God knows where. Couldn’t stand being around us for too long.”

He dropped his hands on his lap. “Doesn’t matter now, he passed… over two years ago.” He didn’t know when saying those words had ceased sending a tight tenseness through his body. But two and a half years was a long time, even if it didn’t feel that way. Guilt crept through him—he should be more sorry, he shouldn’t feel such a relief. 

Castiel toweled off his face and Dean asked, “You’re not gonna say anythin?” 

“Say what?” Castiel looked at him in the mirror. 

“This is usually the part where people go, ‘sorry about your loss’ and all that shit.” 

“Would you think I was sincere if I said that?” 

“No, ‘spose not.” 

“There you go.” 

Rolling his eyes, Dean leaned back against the headboard. He was toying with the idea of making a move, but after what had happened last time, he wasn’t so sure things would work out in his favor. Castiel stripped off his boots and sat on the bed. Low voices carried from the hallway accompanied by the sound of footsteps and the shutting of doors.

“Two years, you said?”

Dean frowned and looked at Castiel. “Yeah?”

“And you were close with your pa?” Castiel was fiddling with his boots, wiping at smut on the leather.

“Yeah, close enough, I s’pose.” Close wasn’t the word. His pa was someone to tell him what to do, to keep him in line. Dean didn’t have to think, could just parrot what his pa said and believed. In some ways it was easier that way. When his pa died, it was like the world lay boundless and Dean didn’t know where to go, didn’t know which way was up or down. 

Castiel nodded and set his boots down by the bed. Dean was about to pull up the covers and lay down when Castiel asked, “It isn’t just something you forget with time, is it?” 

Dean studied him, trying to see through what had to be mock sincerity. Castiel didn’t meet his eyes, but he couldn’t see any jest in the question. “No, it ain’t,” he answered, slowly, because he understood the question. “I think about him less now, though.” Castiel nodded. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” Castiel answered quickly— _too quickly_ , Dean thought. “You just seem mighty comfortable talking about him.”

 _Because you’re a stranger,_ Dean thought. _Because you don’t know everything, it doesn’t mean too much._ But aloud, he only said, “He died, just a simple fact. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Can’t hold a damn funeral for him everyday, gotta move on eventually.” When had he started believing that? Wouldn’t Sam be proud.

Castiel didn’t respond, only nodded. He turned off the lamp and the bed creaked as he lay down, pulling up the blankets. Dean rolled over onto his side and slid a hand under his pillow, taking care to not let any part of his body touch Castiel’s. 

He heard Castiel shift and thought for a moment Castiel might touch him, but then it was silent, still. His eyes adjusted to the darkness as he stared at the opposite wall, too aware of the pulsing in his body. He hadn’t requested one room just to lie in the same bed with Castiel, the narrowest of spaces between their skin. He was really starting to hate his past, optimistic self for thinking anything would be different between him and Castiel this night.

The more he could pretend Castiel wasn’t lying next to him, the better. Easier said than done, though, considering he could feel the minute shift of the blankets as Castiel’s chest rose and fell, could hear his quiet breathing settle into an even rhythm. 

•◊•◊•◊•

“Guess I’ll have to find breakfast elsewhere in town,” Dean remarked the next morning as he pulled on his vest. They had risen late, and a glance out the window told him they’d missed the hotel breakfast, judging from the sun shining over the tops of the false storefronts across the street. A train whistle carried through a breeze and he caught sight of the gleaming train cars traveling out of town.

He looked over at Castiel who was buttoning his shirt, but Castiel didn’t reply. If they had to spend the rest of the week in this quiet limbo… “Where you headed?” Dean asked.

“I’ve got to run some errands.” Grabbing his coat, Castiel opened the door and left the room.

Snatching up his hat—he’d have to buy a new one, thanks to trigger-happy Castiel—Dean followed him. “Errands? What kinda errands?”

“I have to send something.” 

“A letter?” They walked into the quiet foyer, the front doors open to let in a breeze. “You keepin correspondence with someone?”

“No.” Castiel stopped short. “Where’s the hotel clerk?”

Dean scanned the empty foyer. “I don’t know—what are you doin?”

Castiel had gone behind the front desk and was rummaging through the drawers. “Keep an eye out.”

Stepping to the dining room doorway, Dean saw a few waitstaff preoccupied with cleaning tables. He went to the bottom of the staircase and looked up it, listening for footsteps. 

Castiel pulled a box out from under the desk and struggled to open it. “Locked,” he muttered.

“I need rooms five and seven cleaned by noon,” Dean heard the hotel clerk say from upstairs, along with a man’s voice replying. 

“Psst,” Dean said, and Castiel looked up from where he was going through the ledger books on the desk. Dean waved for him to leave and Castiel frowned. Nonetheless, tucking the box inside his coat, he left through the front doors. 

Dean retreated back to the hallway, waiting out of sight until he heard the hotel clerk’s footsteps on the stairs.

“‘scuse me,” he said, walking back into the foyer. The clerk paused in giving orders to one of the staff and looked at him. “I wanted to reserve another bath tonight.”

“Of course, sir." Dean stepped up to the desk and dug in his pocket for his money pouch. The clerk moved aside a few papers on her desk, then frowned. 

“Here you go,” Dean said, holding out the coins, watching her expression grow more concerned. “Everything alright?”

“Yes, um, well. The money box—it was right here…”

“You were robbed?”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not the case, it’s around here somewhere.” 

She crouched down and Dean leaned over the desk to watch her rummage through the drawers. “I thought this was a safe establishment,” he complained. “I don’t want my belongins gettin stolen.”

“I wouldn't worry, sir, our guests have never had their belongings stolen." She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, standing as her search proved futile. "I'm not sure what could've happened to it...” 

“I saw a guy with a beard, blonde hair, come out of his room before me,” Dean lied. “He could’ve done it.”

“Um, well, I don’t want to cast blame on anyone just yet.” Pulling a handkerchief from her dress pocket, the clerk dabbed at her forehead and looked around the foyer. “Tell you what, the bath is on us tonight. I’ll call the sheriff and have this looked into right away.”

“I hope so,” Dean said, pocketing his money, trying to hide his grin. “I don’t want to have to change hotels.”

“What were you doing?” Castiel asked when Dean joined him in the street.

“Givin us an alibi. I got myself a free bath tonight.” Castiel raised an eyebrow and Dean said simply, “I’m quite the actor.” He pointed down an adjacent alley. “Go that way and let’s see what we got.”

When they were tucked away from the busy street and any eyes, Castiel set the box down on the dirt and stomped on it until it splintered. Dean crouched down and pulled bills from the ruined box. “Fuck. This must only be a day's worth of money.”

Licking his thumb, he began counting the bills and coins, laying them aside into two piles. “Some for you and some for me.” He held up a few bills, but Castiel crossed his arms and frowned.

“We agreed 50/50." He scowled down at the money Dean offered him. “Think that should apply to everything we steal.”

“Think I did most of the work, but fine.” He made a show out of recounting the money. “You’ll lose it all when you play against me tonight anyway.” He flashed a grin, but Castiel only fixed him with a steady, unamused look. “You’re no fun,” Dean muttered. 

When they had stashed the money on their persons and thrown the box into a junk pile, they returned to the main street. Dean was about to ask if Castiel wanted to join him for a meal, but Castiel was already walking off down the street. “I’ll meet you back at the hotel for supper,” he called over his shoulder. 

_Figures,_ Dean thought. He really was going to have to get his own room. The end of the week couldn’t come fast enough.

When he returned to the hotel that evening, he’d doubled the amount he’d taken from the hotel money box, then used his winnings to buy a new hat and some supplies. He couldn’t be seated at a table in the dining room for another ten minutes, so he took a seat on one of the high-back chairs in the parlor and rolled a smoke. He wondered how Castiel had spent the day. The answer was probably along the lines of his own—wandering around town, gambling, drinking—well, not the gambling or drinking. There was a familiar, comfortable lightness to Dean’s head—he’d lost count of how many drinks he’d had, though he’d never really been counting. 

Two well-dressed men sat near enough for him to overhear their conversation. Something about waiting for a package. Dean grew more interested with that piece of information and sat forward in his chair, trying to discreetly listen. 

Someone announced the dining room was open for seating and the two men left the parlor. The hotel's front doors opened and Dean looked up to see Castiel entering. Waving his hand at him and putting out his smoke, Dean rose and walked over to him. 

“You get your errands done?” he asked. Castiel wasn’t holding any packages, so Dean wasn’t sure how he’d spent his day if not at the saloon or spending his newly earned money. “Sent a letter to your distant lover?”

“Wasn’t anything of the sort,” Castiel muttered, and Dean believed him. They walked into the dining room were one of the waiters seated them at a table and handed them menus. 

“Well, my day was productive, at least,” Dean said, scanning the options. He’d made it his personal goal to try everything at least once during their stay. “I overheard that the mail coach is due back Friday afternoon.” He didn’t wait for Castiel to respond, but leaned over the table to speak quieter. “Two drivers, one mainly there for protection.”

“Good to know,” Castiel said. “We can take them.”

The waiter took their orders and they fell into an uneasy silence. Dean listened in to the conversations at the tables around them. A man with a briefcase trying to interest his table companions in silk ties from back East. A man and woman speaking to another couple about their recent trip to Philadelphia. Boring shit. 

Dean looked at Castiel across the table. “You ever been out East?” 

Castiel drank from his cup before answering. “Farthest I’ve been is Indiana.” 

“Well, you got me beat. Farthest I’ve been is Kansas.” Castiel didn’t seem inclined to carry the conversation further so he pressed, “Why were you in Indiana?” 

Castiel glanced at him, but didn’t speak. Leaning forward, he grabbed the butter dish and began spreading butter on a piece of bread. 

“Alright, fine,” Dean said. He drummed his fingers on the table. “Reason I was in Kansas was because I was born there. Lived there until I was four, then my father packed up the farm and moved us out west.” He extended his hand, indicating for Castiel to speak. “Now your turn.”

“Here you go again with that sharing shit,” Castiel complained. 

“You agreed! Only way I’m gonna get you to talk.” 

Castiel sighed. Wiping his hands on his napkin, he said, “My family had a farm in Indiana. I grew up there.” 

“Well, look at us, two similar childhoods.” 

Castiel laughed derisively. “I’m sure.” 

“Any siblings?” Castiel shook his head. “Only child, huh? Parents had more than enough to deal with with you on your own?"

Castiel smiled. “Seems like. They died before I was two. My grandparents raised me.”

“Well.” Dean tapped the end of his knife on the table. “Guess I could say the same about my mother. Bitch left when I was four.” He set his knife down. “How’d you end up out west?” 

Finishing off the piece of bread, Castiel crossed his arms and fixed him with a steady look. “Sharing time is over.” 

Dean sighed. At least he'd gotten something out of Castiel. A good two minutes of conversation, maybe.

After supper when a waiter had cleared their plates, Castiel pushed his chair back and left the dining room. Dean followed. “Where you goin?” 

Castiel turned from where he was heading down the hallway back to their room. “Where are you going?” 

“To find a saloon. You wanna come with?” 

“That sounds like a great idea, especially since I don’t drink.” 

“Shouldn’t drink,” Dean corrected, walking past Castiel to the doors leading outside. “You play cards though, right? Dice?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then let’s see if you can win a game against me.”

To his surprise, Castiel agreed. Maybe that’s all it took, Dean considered, involve money and Castiel would be interested. Half-seriously, he wondered how much he'd need to pay to get Castiel to fuck him again.

They found themselves in a saloon much nicer than the ones they’d patronized before—meaning the walls were made out of wood, not canvas, and the clientele seemed to carry more in their purse, judging by the state of their clothing and less rough features. 

Dean weaseled his and Castiel’s way into a game of poker at a back table and was excited to find the players were able to bet high. And so was he, for once. He hardly touched his liquor, the thrill of playing with such high stakes was so intoxicating. 

Castiel bowed out after becoming only a few dollars richer, and Dean struck up a conversation with a redheaded woman playing to his right who kept her hat on tilted back as she played, rocking her chair back and forth on the floor with hard clacks. 

“Been here two weeks,” she told Dean. “Came from the coast—Stanford—and boy, do I miss it. I got too used to the air—it’s different out there, ya know? What with the ocean and all?” Dean was tempted to ask if she’d run into a Sam Winchester, but he could feel Castiel’s eyes on him. “But nothing beats these frontier towns out here where everything and anything goes, ya know?” 

“Right,” Dean agreed, assuming she meant general lawlessness, hustling, and everything in between, but her eyes flitted between him and Castiel. 

“You two traveling together?” 

“Yeah,” Dean answered, though he bristled at the underlying insinuation. He shifted in his chair. “Funny story, he tried to steal from me and I took mercy on him, let him tag along since he had nowhere else to be.”

"That’s not even close to how it was,” Castiel protested, but there wasn’t a way to explain the real reason they were traveling together, so he let it drop. 

The game ended with Dean richer than he’d started and in high-spirits. The woman he’d been talking to pounded her drink back and stood. “You wanna see what this town really has to offer?” she asked, voice low beneath the commotion filling the saloon, which was steadily growing more crowded. 

Dean raised an eyebrow and she beckoned. “Come on, both of you.” Dean looked at Castiel and shrugged, and they followed the woman to the very back of the saloon, pushing their way through the crowded gambling tables. “Charlie,” she said, sticking her hand out to Dean. 

“Dean. This is Cas.” 

“Pleasure to meet you both.” Charlie walked up to a door at the back of the saloon and knocked twice. In a moment it opened just enough to show a burly man. Charlie jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at Dean and Castiel. “They’re new. Thought I’d show them around.” 

The man nodded and stepped back, opening the door wider. Charlie led the way into a spacious room with a few tables and much less people than the main barroom. Kerosene lamps on the tables provided the only light, casting the room in orange light and dusky shadows, and a man played the piano in one corner.

“What the hell is this place?” Dean asked.

"Set aside a room from the rabble and rich folk feel more comfortable, tend to loosen their purse strings more." Charlie winked at Dean. "I may not be rich, but I'm very friendly, so they like me here." She waved at someone at the bar and headed there. Dean followed, glancing around the room, Castiel at his heels.

"Shoulda known you fellas would be here,” Charlie said, greeting two men standing at the bar. She gestured to Dean and Castiel, “Meet Dean and Cas, my newest acquaintances," then pointed to each man, “Joe and Arthur. Arthur settled here from England recently and owns a mercantile here in town. Joe works over at the railroad office.” 

Dean nodded at them. "What brought you to Evanston?" one of the men, Joe, asked.

"Just, uh, travelin through," Dean said with a glance at Castiel, who stood at his elbow. 

"That's what Charlie said at first," the other man, Arthur, laughed. He struck Dean as arrogant, but maybe that was only the effect of his accent combined with his perfectly tailored suit and clean-cut appearance. "But she's still here."

Charlie rolled her eyes. "What can I say, I've made some friends and I'm having too good a time to leave." She brightened suddenly and called, “Gilda! Hi, sweetheart! How ya been?” 

Dean turned to see a woman excuse herself from a table across the room and make her way over to the bar. “You didn’t come upstairs last night,” she complained, twining her arms around Charlie’s neck. “I missed you.” 

“I’ll be up there tonight,” Charlie promised. 

Dean looked at Castiel to see his reaction, but Castiel was answering a question Arthur had asked him. Dean cleared his throat. “Well, we gonna start playin or what?” 

The clientele at the tables varied as the night grew long. Charlie went off with Gilda. The door to the room opened to admit more people, all well-off from appearances. Dean recognized the Philadelphia couple from the hotel, dressed up as if they’d just visited the opera house.

Arthur stayed put at the faro table Dean had chosen and kept up a steady banter with Castiel which, though mostly one-sided on Arthur’s end, was still the friendliest Dean had ever seen Castiel been. 

“You're quite quiet,” Arthur observed to Castiel in between games. “That a side effect of being on the road for months on end?” 

“Nope, that’s just his personality,” Dean piped up. Castiel and Arthur looked at him. “Can’t get two words out of him most days.” 

“Have you two been traveling together for very long?” Arthur asked, tapping a finger on his empty glass. 

“Not very,” Castiel started.

“We've known each other for a few weeks now," Dean said at the same time. "And we’re stickin with each other until the end of the week." 

Castiel eyed him before looking back at Arthur. “Might split up before then, both getting on each other's nerves.” 

Arthur laughed. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, standing.

“That’d be great, thanks,” Dean said, purposefully ignoring the fact Arthur was only speaking to Castiel. He’d be damned if this stuck-up bastard got in Castiel’s pants tonight. Digging into his vest pocket, he pulled out some coins. “Actually, get one for yourself too. Drinks for the whole table, I’m buying.” The others at the table cheered, and Dean added, nodding at Castiel, “None for him, though, he can’t handle the poison.” Arthur took the money, a frown creasing his brow, and Dean winked at Castiel. 

“You’re making a fool of yourself,” Castiel said, his voice low, when Arthur had walked away.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin about.” Dean shifted closer to him, holding his gaze for a long moment before letting his eyes fall down to Castiel’s mouth. He was desperate enough he could have kissed him right there, in front of everyone, but he had enough reason to know that’d be a bad idea. 

He met Castiel’s eyes again. “You aren’t ever gonna quit, are you, Winchester?” Castiel asked. 

“Nope.” 

Castiel shrugged and looked away. Dean grabbed his glass and drained it. Not even a minute-long conversation and Castiel was leaving him breathless. The way Castiel could undo him with just a look was unnerving.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Castiel fiddle with his necklace, then look down and drop the chain, as if he’d been touching it unconsciously. He pressed his palms to his thighs, then twined his slender fingers in his lap.

Dean never lost his head over anybody. If he couldn’t get with one person, no sweat, he’d find another. But he knew getting a whore for the night wasn’t going to cut it. He wanted Castiel, and desperate times called for desperate measures. 

“Let’s make this more interestin,” he said, leaning into Castiel’s space, keeping his voice low.

Castiel’s eyes narrowed when they turned on him. “Interesting how?”

“Whoever of us loses the most money in this next game blows the other.”

Castiel snorted. “That doesn’t seem a very fair contest when your main occupation is winning at cards.”

“You pick the game then.”

Tapping his fingers on his thigh, Castiel stared off into the middle distance for a long moment, then looked back at him. “Alright," he answered, to Dean’s surprise. "But no cheating.”

Dean put his hand over his heart, trying to fight back a grin. “I swear.”

Arthur returned with a bottle of whiskey and more glasses. Dean glanced at Castiel.“We stayin here or movin to a poker table?” 

“We’ll stick with faro,” Castiel decided. Smart choice, since it was a game more dependent on chance than skill—unless you cheated. But Dean would play fair and square because he’d be happy with either outcome. He’d either get the sonuvabitch on his knees, or finish what they’d started two nights ago in the cabin. 

“Alright." He held up his glass. “Fill ‘er up.” 

The game seemed interminably long. Dean caught Castiel glancing at him often, as if to ensure he wasn’t cheating. Otherwise, he seemed indifferent, cool. He’d given up conversing with Arthur, which was a relief, because that might’ve been the last straw for Dean. Even now he didn’t fully trust that Castiel wouldn’t leave him high and dry. He sure didn’t seem afflicted with the same rising need Dean felt. The only sign being that he’d pushed his chair close to Dean's to push their knees together against the table, though that might’ve just been to torture Dean further. 

The attention of their table was drawn away by the sounds of muffled crashing glass and swearing, signaling a fight occurring in the main barroom. Taking advantage of the distraction, Dean reached under the table and grabbed Castiel’s free hand, drawing it to his own crotch.

Castiel didn’t visibly react, but let Dean take his hand and even groped him for a quick second—making Dean clench his jaw at the pleasure so acute it felt like pain—before pulling his hand away. When Dean looked at him, he caught the amused smile playing at Castiel's mouth and his heartbeat quickened. 

Castiel got lucky the first half of the game, then his bets were off a few rounds, and Dean thought he might be able to catch up. Now was the time skill came into play, guessing from the cards already drawn where to place his bets. When the game ended, Dean came out on top. He flashed a grin at Castiel as he collected his chips, but Castiel seemed unbothered.

“Well, nice playin with you all,” Dean announced, standing and looking at Castiel pointedly.

"You don't want to stay for another game?" Arthur asked. 

Castiel pushed his chair back and stood. "Afraid it's getting late, we really should be going."

"Pleasure meetin you, really," Dean said, grabbing his coat and hat. He glanced at Arthur's meager winnings. "Better luck next time, right?" Grinning, he clapped Arthur on the shoulder, earning him a dirty look.

After cashing in his chips, he followed Castiel out of the saloon. The cool night air hit him as a shock, but it only slightly cooled the warmth he felt throughout his whole body. Stepping down a side street to reach the hotel, Dean bumped his shoulder against Castiel’s. Castiel shoved him away, but the roving look in his eyes and the way he gripped Dean’s coat before letting go egged Dean on. 

"You didn’t stop me when I got one room at the hotel,” he said. “I reckon you want this as bad as I do, you’re just tryin to kid yourself.” 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about."

“Come on, Cas, don’t bullshit me. If you play nice I might just return the favor.” 

“Just get your ass to the hotel,” Castiel said, and knowing he wasn’t completely indifferent to what was about to happen, God willing, gave Dean a proud satisfaction. 

The hotel clerk looked up at them as they walked inside. “You boys have a nice night?” she asked. 

“Yes ma’m,” Castiel said, grabbing Dean’s elbow and pulling him along to the hallway. 

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean protested, his heart pounding. 

The hotel clerk stood. “Morning meal is at seven." Dean nodded as they kept walking and she stepped out from behind the desk. “And we have a strict no noise policy here after ten at night, so could I ask you to keep it down?” 

Dean laughed and Castiel looked back at her. “Will do, goodnight.” 

Stopping outside their door, Dean fumbled in his vest pockets for the room key. “You haven’t lost it, have you?” Castiel asked. 

“No, no, I got it.” He found it, unlocked the door, and walked inside with Castiel close on his heels. He'd hardly shut the door before Castiel pushed him up against it, making the door rattle loudly in its frame.

Dean inhaled sharply in surprise, then warned, “shh,” and listened. He heard footsteps in the hallway and they stayed frozen, his back pressed to the door, Castiel gripping his coat. The footsteps grew louder and Dean looked down to see a shadow cross the light under the door, then disappear, the sound of the footsteps fading. 

He looked back up and realized Castiel was staring at him. His heart thumped to be standing so close, and Castiel only moved closer, slotting his leg between Dean’s, pinning him to the door. Dean clenched his jaw at the pressure against his groin, but his attention was on Castiel’s eyes, his lips. In the near darkness of the room, he could hardly discern Castiel’s face, but he saw the moment when Castiel’s eyes fell to his mouth. Then Castiel’s lips were on his in a bruising kiss. 

Dean brought his hands to Castiel's jaw, parted his lips to Castiel's tongue pushing against his bottom lip. He groaned as Castiel shifted his leg against his crotch and slid his tongue against his. Castiel's knuckles brushed against his jaw, hands gripped his collar, hips pressed hard to his.

“Just how drunk are you?” Dean panted against Castiel's mouth. He couldn’t remember Castiel drinking, must’ve missed it because he knew Castiel would never act this way sober. But Castiel only shook his head, already pressing his lips to Dean’s again.

They kissed until Dean felt like he’d burn up inside his clothes. He pushed Castiel back lightly, breaking their kiss. Castiel chased his mouth again and Dean complied, then said, “On the bed.” 

He lit the kerosene lamp, turned it down low enough to see the furniture and not trip over themselves, then pulled off his clothing. Castiel slipped off his cross necklace and placed it on the nightstand. Stepping over to him, Dean pulled at his waistband and unbuttoned his pants.

“I thought I was gonna blow you,” Castiel said, smacking his hand aside and pulling them off himself. 

“You’re wearing too much damn clothes.” Castiel looked amused so Dean kissed him before he could say anything. They got on the bed, Dean pulling Castiel to straddle his lap. Castiel leaned over and lowered the lamp so the room darkened, and when he settled back on Dean’s lap, his face was cloaked in shadows.

Dean felt his cock bump against Castiel’s, but he ignored its faint aching and caught Castiel’s mouth in his. He ran his tongue up Castiel’s lower lip, darted it in to graze Castiel's tongue, then pulled away, biting Castiel's bottom lip. Castiel groaned and pushed his tongue, insistent, against Dean’s lips until Dean let them deepen their kiss. 

“I thought you said we weren’t gonna do this again,” Dean teased, breaking their kiss to take a breath. 

“Shut up or we won’t be,” Castiel said, hoarse and out of breath. He ran his tongue over the ridges of Dean’s ear, dug his teeth into his earlobe until Dean swore. His hands roamed Dean’s shoulders, his chest, his hips, and Dean grabbed Castiel’s ass to pull him up against his cock, drawing a groan from Castiel which sparked a shiver at the base of his spine. 

“You gonna stay here all night or do somethin about that?” he asked, grinding Castiel’s hips down on himself again. Castiel’s cock pressed hard with a slick warmth against his stomach, and Dean’s pulse thrummed under his skin, so loud he thought Castiel could hear it, feel it.

Castiel made a noncommittal noise in his throat and grabbed Dean’s jaw in both hands, pressed their mouths together once more. Dean kissed him back, then pushed him off. Truthfully, he didn’t know why it’d taken them so long to kiss, wanted to press his lips to Castiel’s until he knew every sensation, until his lips bruised. But Castiel’s sudden willingness and eagerness made him nervous; he didn’t know how long he had until the wall came up in Castiel’s eyes again.

“Impatient,” Castiel complained, sitting back. “You’re acting like you haven’t been fucked in years.” 

“Feels like it.” Dean guided Castiel’s hand to his cock. “Now I believe you owe me somethin.”

“You know, I think I have a better idea.” Grabbing Dean’s elbow, Castiel tugged him down so Dean slid onto his back under him. Dean ran his hands up Castiel’s hips, his waist, through his hair as he watched Castiel make his way down his body, nipping and kissing his chest and stomach. He reached Dean’s hips and Dean spread his legs as much as he could within Castiel’s legs straddling him. 

Castiel looked up at him, a scheming eagerness in his eyes, then stuck his two fingers in his mouth and sucked them. Dean felt his cock jump as he watched him, then Castiel pulled away his fingers and moved so he was kneeling within Dean’s legs. 

Spreading his legs wide, Dean watched as Castiel brought his fingers to him. His back arched as Castiel swiped at his rim, then slid a finger inside him. He bucked his hips up, prompting Castiel to push in further and add another finger. 

He shut his eyes tight as waves of pleasure sent shudders through his body. Then a sudden warmth startled his eyes open and he lifted his head to see Castiel sucking his cock. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Dean swore, his eyes falling shut again. He twined his hands in Castiel’s hair, rocking his hips back and forth, trying to get more of Castiel inside of himself, trying to fight the urge to come that was already building in his gut.

Castiel added another finger and Dean grunted, his eyes fluttering open. “Wait," he said. Castiel pulled off him and looked up. His lips were wet with spit and precome, his hair mussed from Dean’s fingers—a state of dishevelment which both offset and enhanced the sharp, broad lines of his shoulders, his muscular thighs, and Dean’s breath caught in his throat. 

“In my pack,” he managed and Castiel smiled. 

“You didn’t." Getting off the bed, he rummaged through Dean’s pack until he found the recent purchase, a jar of vaseline. “Since when have you had this?” he asked, climbing back onto the bed in between Dean’s thighs. 

“After the way you fuck, reckoned I’d need it.”

Castiel began covering his cock and Dean bit his lip at the anticipation. He bent his legs, gripping them under his knees, and Castiel placed the jar aside, grabbing his own cock with one hand and bracing himself on the bed with the other. He eased himself into Dean and Dean grabbed his arm, swearing under his breath.

Slowly, Castiel pushed all the way into him, then paused. Dean tried to catch his breath, then Castiel rolled his hips, and he lost the ability to breath entirely, saw black for a moment. 

“Fuck, Cas, fuck," he swore. Castiel grinned wickedly down at him, and Dean nearly came when he did it again, every muscle tensing. Then Castiel began fucking him in earnest and his head truly felt light.

Grabbing his cock, he began pumping himself, and Castiel's eyes flitted up to meet his before falling down. He shifted, gripping the bedsheets, biting his lip in concentration, neither of them speaking beyond muttered curses and quick gasps. Feeling himself approaching his edge, Dean clenched his legs around Castiel's hips, tried to pull him closer, deeper.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Castiel gasped. He dug his fingers into Dean’s arm and Dean gripped his wrist. With a low moan that set Dean’s nerves ablaze, Castiel came, throwing his head back. Swearing, Dean followed suit several seconds later, his cock jerking in his hand.

When the jolting of their hips had stilled, Castiel pulled out and dropped down beside Dean on the bed, breathing hard. His arm pressed up against Dean’s, the blankets underneath them rumpled.

Swallowing, Dean felt his skin cool with every breath he took, the heat burning in him subsiding. He realized vaguely that Castiel had actually stayed still the end, hadn’t run away. 

Light fingers touched his chest and he turned his head on the pillow to look at Castiel. His blue eyes were heavy lidded, but he moved closer and pressed his mouth to Dean’s. Though surprised, Dean kissed him back, grazing Castiel’s jaw with his hand. His head was still reeling, but he knew Castiel would sober up eventually and push him away once again. The sonuvabitch wasn’t thinking clearly—that was painfully obvious.

He put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and pushed him back. A whine rose in Castiel’s throat and he tried to kiss Dean again. 

“Go to sleep, Cas,” Dean said, pulling Castiel’s hands from his face. “Get some rest.” 

Castiel’s eyes searched his, then he nodded slowly and lay back. Dean grabbed his shirt from the floor and and halfheartedly wiped his mess off his stomach. Tossing the shirt to the floor, he pulled up the covers and rolled over onto his side.

When was the last time he’d lay with someone, slept next to them after a fuck? Uneasiness rose in him at the memories this situation conjured, but he pushed it all aside. The memories left him easily, thankfully, due to his exhaustion, and before long, he fell asleep to the slow pace of Castiel’s breathing in the quiet room.


	7. Making the Most of It

When Dean woke, he woke from a dream. Something about his pa, something about Lisa. For a moment, he thought the source of warmth against his skin was Lisa’s body. Then he opened his eyes, blinked in the sunlight in the room, and remembered where he was.

Still cloaked in the warmth of his dream, his mind roamed through his memories of mornings like these. How Lisa’s hair would tangle around her face when she woke, the sweet sleepiness in her eyes. The thoughts didn’t invoke the same peace and contentedness they used to. Now the memories soured the back of his throat with guilt. He’d long since stopped trying to swallow down the taste; at the very least, with time it was no longer so nauseating. Maybe it was only familiar. 

Castiel stirred next to him and Dean’s mind snapped back to the present, to the memory of last night. He lay still in the tangle of the sheets, Castiel’s skin warm where it touched his, so unfamiliar. Maybe he should rise now, leave before Castiel came to his senses, avoid another strained, silent morning where they avoided each other’s eyes.

Despite his misgivings, he turned his head and watched Castiel blink awake. When Castiel’s eyes focused on his, Dean told himself last night had been only a drunken fluke. He felt tense, unsure, waiting for he didn't know what, for the other shoe to drop.

But Castiel didn't seem plagued by the same confusion Dean felt. His legs knocked against Dean's as he shifted onto his side, facing him. Extending his arm under the covers, he slid his hand up Dean’s thigh, and Dean bit his lip, holding his gaze. Castiel’s hand settled on his crotch, and Dean shifted into his touch as he groped his hardness.

"You gonna do something about that?" he asked, a smile playing at his lips. His eyes dropped to Dean's mouth.

Meeting him in the middle, Dean shut his eyes when Castiel kissed him, wondered why Castiel was still here, still friendly, wondered why he himself was still lying in bed next to him. But he couldn't deny the warmth that spread across his whole body as Castiel pressed his lips to his.

He slid his hand down between them and Castiel pushed it aside. Pressing closer, moving on top of him, his chest against Dean’s, he deepened their kiss. In the haze of his recent sleep and dreams, Dean let himself sink into the sensations. Their kisses were slow, questioning, every brush of Castiel’s breath on his cheek sending shivers down his body. He wanted to be near Castiel, inside him, wanted to explore him until he knew every inch of his body—though that was absurd and he felt embarrassed even thinking such things. All the same, he couldn’t stop a sigh as Castiel’s hand moved through his hair, across his cheek.

He felt Castiel smile against his mouth and broke their kiss to look at him. It wasn’t a biting, mocking smile; there was a soft look in Castiel’s eyes that he’d never seen before. 

“When’s the last time you were kissed, Cas?” he asked, half teasing, half genuine, thinking of Castiel's eagerness last night, this morning. He ran his thumb along Castiel's jaw, lightly pinched his earlobe.

Something flickered across Castiel’s face, and Dean tensed again, worrying for a moment tears might spring to his blue eyes. But Castiel only leaned in and kissed him again. “Too long.” When he pulled back to look at Dean, his eyes were no longer soft, just teasing. He ran his tongue up Dean’s bottom lip. “So don’t quit.” Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

They kissed until Dean could no longer ignore the ache between his legs and drew Castiel’s hand to his cock, took Castiel in his hand. They finished each other off, catching each other’s mouths in between panted gasps, and then lay there in the afterglow. Dean felt a fullness in his chest that he saw reflected in Castiel’s eyes, heavy and sated, a contentedness he hadn’t felt in a very long time. 

Close on its heels, though, was a restlessness. _Too long,_ Castiel had said. It’d been too long since Dean had been kissed like this, slowly, unhurriedly. It felt like a dream. It was addicting, and concerning, how much he craved it. 

“Cas,” he said, sitting up. Castiel’s eyes had fallen shut and his chest was rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. His mouth was soft, relaxed, and Dean resisted the ridiculous urge to lean down and kiss him again. He nudged him and Castiel’s eyes fluttered open. “At the end of the week, we’re splittin up.”

Castiel’s brow knit together in a frown. “That’s what I agreed to.” 

“Right, uh…”

Propping himself up on one elbow, Castiel asked, “What’re you saying?”

“Nothin, nothin. Just, uh, this,” he gestured to themselves, “This doesn’t mean anythin.”

A familiar, sly smile crept on Castiel’s face. “What could it possibly mean?”

“Forget it.” He didn’t know what he was saying—why would Castiel ever think this meant more? He’d be lucky if Castiel didn’t try to kill him by the end of the week.

“I forgot you’re so sentimental." Fluffing up his pillow, Castiel lay back down. "One good fuck and you’re already planning a wedding.”

“God, shut up,” Dean complained. “Ain't nothin of the sort.”

“I’m only keeping you around for the robbery, Dean. Doesn’t matter what we do, you’re still a pain in my ass.” 

“Yeah, well, the feelin’s mutual.” 

Castiel grinned and rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket back up over his shoulders. Dean rolled his eyes and ran his hands through his hair. He almost got up, but Castiel’s bare body was pressed against his side, too tempting. Leaning forward, he retrieved his flask from where it'd fallen out of his coat strewn on the floor, and sat back against the headboard.

“Six days," he said quietly. He turned his flask back and forth in his hands. "Might as well make the most of it.”

•◊•◊•◊•

The following days passed quickly, one bleeding into the next. Bickering, tensions rising to a head, marking each other’s bodies and bringing each other to gasps, sinking down onto the bed in the warmth of the room. 

Evenings sitting for hours in saloons and gambling halls where Dean lost sight of his money, saw it only as an abstract thing as it passed from his hand to others or returned to his five-fold. Castiel, beside him, was a physical thing, as was his desire. He’d catch Castiel’s eyes over a game and feel his stomach draw in and heartbeat quicken at the thought of their last coupling, at the anticipation of their next. 

Castiel was still fickle. Whereas Dean’s desire flared quick and sudden, making him restless and impatient, Castiel let his simmer, pushed Dean away during the day, pretended to not notice Dean’s suggestions they leave the saloons and gambling halls they frequented. And Dean would needle him on purpose until those blue eyes, cool and calm, became fierce and demanding. Would wait, growing more impatient, to finally feel Castiel grip his wrist, pull him closer on the walk to their hotel room, kiss him deeply, hard and rough, until he fought back a moan, then release him flushed and trembling. Once, Dean got so drunk waiting for Castiel to give in, that they didn’t make it back to the hotel. Castiel took him in his mouth in the alleyway and Dean’s head spun at the recklessness of it all. 

Other nights played out slow and soft. Castiel would push his chair closer to Dean’s in the saloon, touch his knee under the table. If anything, Dean found those nights most worrisome; grew nervous under Castiel’s gaze, wondered why Castiel still found him tolerable. 

He had doubted they’d last the whole week, thought at one point they’d get so fed up with each other that they’d part ways for good, robbery be damned. But he hadn’t gotten tired of Castiel yet and it seemed the same was true on Castiel's end, even if they both acted the opposite. It would come soon enough, he told himself. Nothing this good could last for long.

•◊•◊•◊•

“So, you just came from Stanford?” Dean asked Charlie in between games of poker. Castiel was playing dice across the room—losing, from the looks of it. Dean had tried to teach the poor bastard some tricks, but to no avail. Charlie nodded and Dean turned his attention back to her. “You ever hear of a Samuel Winchester?” 

She frowned in thought. “The lawyer?” Dean nodded. “Yeah, I heard of him. Saw him sometimes at one saloon in town where a lot of bigwigs went. Hell of a faro player, though I never went up against him. He was always at one table with a bunch of other wealthy, important men in town. Thought they ran the place.”

Sounded like Sam. Uppity. Thought he was too good for Dean and their pa. 

“He married? Kids?” He tried to ask casually, but in truth, he was curious. The last letter he’d received from Sam was dated a year ago. ‘Course, that was because Dean moved around plenty and never sent Sam a change of address. 

Charlie shrugged. “Couldn’t say. Always had this one pretty brunette hanging around him. A whore. Ruby.” Not surprising. Much as Sam tried to hide it, Dean knew he wasn’t a stranger to the whorehouses. Figures he’d get attached to one in particular. “’Course, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a woman at home. Why you asking? You know him?” 

“Used to.” Charlie raised her eyebrows and Dean hastened to say, “Not like that, he’s uh, he’s my brother.” 

“Guess you didn’t have the same turn of luck he did, huh?” 

“No, guess not.” 

“That’s alright,” she gestured to the many well-dressed folk in the room, “wouldn’t want to be a stuffy moneybag anyway.” 

Dean nodded, though the prospect of having money was appealing nonetheless. A new game of poker started, halting their conversation. As Dean played, he tried to foster up some sort of resentment towards Sam. For being successful, rich. Mostly, he felt the humiliation of their last conversation a year and a half ago seep back into his bones. 

It had been three nights since Dean last came home to the apartment in Lawrence he and Sam shared, alternating between the streets and various whores’ rooms until the brothel madam found out and gave him the boot, saying he wasn’t paying nearly enough to be sleeping there. 

Out of money, he stumbled his way back home in the afternoon of the third day and found Sam packing. 

“Where the hell you goin?” he slurred, catching himself on the doorframe. Sam straightened and stared at him. 

“I was wondering when you would get back,” he said and crossed his arms. “Thought I was going to have to bail you out from jail, or worse.” 

Dean waved his hand at him and crossed the room to his bed. “Don’t need any of your concern. Can take care of myself.” 

“Clearly,” Sam said dryly. 

Dean sat heavily on his bed and looked at the bag Sam was packing. “You goin somewhere?” 

“I’m going to Stanford.” 

“Really? All of a sudden.” 

“I’ve talked about leaving before. Thought about it plenty. I thought I might stay here longer, but with pa gone now...” Dean shook his head, but Sam didn’t seem to notice. “And the way this town is, I think I might have a better chance at starting my own firm somewhere else.” 

“You still on that lawyer shit? Think you’re too good for our small town?” 

Sam ignored the jab. “I want you to come with me.” 

“Me? To California?” 

“I think it’ll do you good to get away. There’s a lot of… memories here.” 

“And what am I gonna do there, huh? Ride your coattails? Follow you around?” 

“You could start by getting your life back in order.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Dean, come on. It’s been nearly a year since pa died. He’s gone. We have to move on eventually.” 

“Don’t you say that.” Dean bit off the words. The same conversation, over and over and over. “Don’t you fucking say that.” 

“You know it’s true! We can’t live in limbo forever, can we? And you..." He gestured to Dean. "I mean, look at you, Dean, you’re a goddamn mess."

His face burning, Dean started protesting, but Sam cut him off, “Lisa’s a good woman, Dean, she put up with all your shit, more than she should’ve. You can’t blame her for moving on now. Hell, she probably should’ve left you sooner—” 

“You don’t know fucking anything!” Dean exploded. He stood, jabbing his finger in Sam's face. “You mention her one more damn time and I’ll break your face—you have no fuckin idea what you’re talkin about and you ain’t got no fuckin place to talk about her. You’re damn right she shoulda left, I don’t know why she stuck around this long.” 

Sam looked confused, like that wasn’t what he'd expected Dean to say, and, honestly, Dean was surprised too, but it was the truth.

“You know why I did what I did?” he continued. “To get her to fuck off. I didn’t need her naggin me all the time, tryin to make a more honest man of me—and I sure as hell don’t need you here doin the same, so go! Go on, fuckin leave, I don’t give a damn. You think you’re too good for me anyway.” 

“That’s not true—”

With a curse, Dean shoved him and Sam stumbled back, caught himself from falling. “It is true, you know it! You couldn’t wait to leave me and pa, go off to college and become a big city lawyer. Only reason you came back was to rub it in our faces that you have money now, that you’re so smart, you think you’re all that—but you ain’t shit!” 

Sam's eyes flared with anger, but he only clenched his jaw and looked away. Dean felt his heart pound with every heartbeat.

When he finally spoke, Sam's voice was strained. “You sound a whole lot like pa."

“Well, he was right.” His rush of anger was quickly fading, leaving him worn out, aching all over from sleeping on the ground, stomach churning from all booze and no food, and tired, so tired. 

“I’m going to go, Dean,” Sam said, finally looking at him. “Maybe one day, when you—” He shook his head and, without finishing his sentence, grabbed his bag and left the room.

Dean sat down on his bed again. It creaked loudly in the stillness of the room. He heard the front door open and shut. Sometime in the silence he fell asleep and when he woke, Sam was long gone. 

Lost in such thoughts, Dean nearly forgot he was playing poker. He pulled himself out of his reverie— _fuck Sam, who needs him? Good for him, he’s rich. He’s successful! Doesn’t concern me_ —but it was too late to salvage his chances. 

“Fuck everythin,” Dean muttered as a mustached man wearing a brown vest collected his winnings and stood to go to another table. 

“Thought you hustled others, that they didn’t hustle you,” he heard over his shoulder and looked up to see Castiel walking over. He sat down in the now vacant chair next to Dean and leaned back in his chair, front two legs of the chair in the air. 

“Shuddup.” Dean drained his glass and watched the man—Lester, he thought the man had said—seat himself at another table. 

“One more,” Lester said to the others. “Gotta get home to the missus.”

Castiel leaned forward, his chair legs hitting the ground with a clack, and bumped Dean’s arm with his elbow. “Wanna get your money back?” 

“What? You gonna play him?” Dean asked sarcastically. 

Castiel shook his head and lowered his voice. “He’ll be carrying plenty of money when he leaves here.” 

Dean glared at Lester before pulling his eyes back to Castiel. “Got a point there.” Castiel smiled at him. So it would be one of those nights. “What’s got you in such a good mood?” 

Castiel shrugged. “No reason.” Opening his money pouch, he showed Dean the coins inside. 

“How the hell—” Castiel grinned and tucked the pouch back into his vest pocket. “Guess you were listenin to what I taught you after all.” He watched the game begin at Lester’s table. “If bein a thief doesn’t work out for you, guess you can always fall back on hustlin.” 

Castiel snorted. “Doubt that.”

“What _are_ you gonna do when our job’s over?” He didn’t know how many days they had left. One, two? 

“Thought about Mexico. Haven’t been there yet. Maybe I’ll go back to ranch work. Wanna get out of this area, though, for sure.” He fiddled with his necklace, watching the patrons at the other tables, then looked at Dean. “What about you?”

“Don’t know, we’ll see.” Back to the same old, most likely. Didn’t do to think much about it.

“Right,” Castiel said, “you live from day to day.”

Day to day to day. Tedious, tiresome, but, “It’s worked out well enough for me so far.”

When the game Lester was playing began to wind down, they left the saloon to wait in the adjacent alleyway for Lester to emerge. 

Castiel lit a cigarette, the flame a quick spark in the darkness of the alley. He took a drag, then passed the cigarette over, his fingers brushing Dean’s. Dean looked up at the stars as he inhaled then exhaled the smoke. He thought of undressing Castiel again tonight, biting the soft skin of his inner thighs, running his tongue along his bottom lip. 

When he handed the cigarette back, Castiel looked at him and his eyes were bright silver blue in the moonlight. They were the only part of him that showed a hint of anticipation of robbing Lester blind. 

Dean leaned on the saloon's exterior and tapped his heel on the wall, impatient. Sooner they robbed Lester, sooner they could get back to the hotel. Castiel leaned forward to look at the entrance of the alley. 

_If only Sam could see me now,_ Dean thought. He’d make a big fuss about the stealing, but Dean doubted he'd be surprised. Robbing people in an alley wasn’t so far removed from everything else Dean had done. Sam might even feel a small satisfaction; after years of warning of what Dean might become, Dean had finally become it. 

“Ya know, if my brother or I ever lost money in a card game, he would never let me do this.” He held out his hand for the smoke and Castiel handed it over. “He’d bitch and moan about it, but he’d never try to steal it back. Just accept it and go to bed hungry.” 

“No sense in going hungry if it’s there for the taking,” 

Dean pointed with the cigarette at Castiel. “That’s what I always said.” 

“Why didn’t you just do it anyway?” Castiel pulled out his knife and flicked it open, ran his thumb over the blade. “You always give in so easy?” 

“Wasn’t that simple. He’d have probably left if I started stealin like that. He never wanted to get in trouble with the law.” He took a drag and handed the smoke back to Castiel. “’Course, he left anyway, so don’t know what the point was. Left for college when he was eighteen and came back all educated. Didn’t stick around for long. Thought he was so much better than me and pa.” 

That was what their pa had always said. But Dean knew it was something else as well—Sam always wanted more, always had big dreams. He was too young to remember their mother, the months after she left them, too young to remember the way it broke their pa’s heart—even if he saw the lasting effects. He thought he was special, that he could leave the life Dean and their pa led, that he could find something else, something more. Dean knew better. He knew Sam was in for a world of hurt if he thought life had anything good to offer them. 

Shaking his head, he looked at Castiel who was pacing in between the alley walls. “Alright, your turn, what you got to share?” 

Castiel scoffed. “You’re still on that shit?”

“Don't know why you're so resistant. 'Less you’re tryin to hide somethin. You got some dark, secret past you don’t want me to know about?” 

Castiel eyed him, and Dean honestly couldn’t tell if that was the truth or not. “There isn’t anything to say." He stopped pacing and leaned back on the wall next to Dean. "My grandparents couldn’t stop me from doing what I wanted to do. I left home when I was seventeen and never looked back.” 

“What about Jimmy?” It was a risky thing to ask, since Castiel was being pretty approachable tonight and Dean didn’t want to ruin that, but he wanted to know. “You said you two weren’t thievin partners. Why not?” 

To his surprise, Castiel answered. “Jimmy and I grew up in the same town, knew each other since we were young. We left home together. We didn’t need to steal, we found jobs and got by.” He scuffed his boot on the dirt ground. “Besides, Jimmy was a… a preacher’s kid. Wouldn’t have sat right with him to rob people.” 

Dean snorted and Castiel looked at him, narrowing his eyes. “What’s so funny?” 

“You and a preacher’s kid, huh? The way you act, seems like you’ve been an outlaw forever. Can’t picture you with any sorta morals.” 

“Stranger things have happened.” 

“What changed?” Castiel flicked ash from his cigarette. “You went from bein a good Christian man to a thief. How’d that happen?” 

“Wouldn’t have described myself that way,” Castiel muttered. Then he shrugged. “Jimmy and I, we didn’t know shit about the real world. Once I ended up on my own, I discovered using a gun is a much easier way to get money than breaking my back on some ranch.” 

Dean wanted to ask why Castiel ended up on his own, but he thought he already knew. _Was._

The creaking of the saloon doors accompanied by a rise in the voices and music inside alerted Dean that someone was coming. He and Castiel remained against the wall until the silhouette of a man appeared in the alleyway, walking towards them with a slight tipsy shuffle. 

“That’s him,” Dean said aside to Castiel and Castiel dropped his cigarette, ground it into the dirt with his heel. 

Lester nodded at them as he approached. When Dean stepped forward to block his path, he halted, his eyes widening a little. 

“Can I, uh, can I help you with something?” he asked. In the faint moonlight, Dean saw how his eyes shifted quickly between him and Castiel. 

Castiel drew his knife and Lester took a quick step backwards. “I won’t have to use this if you cooperate,” Castiel warned.

Lester held out his hands entreatingly. “I won that game fair and square,” he told Dean.

“Good for you,” Dean said. “Now hand over all your money.” 

Eyeing Castiel, Lester brought his hand slowly to his vest, then spun around and bolted. 

“Son of a—” Dean chased after him and easily caught up with him before the end of the alley. Grabbing Lester’s arms, he pinned them behind his back. “Don’t make a sound,” he threatened, and Lester choked back a yell. 

Catching up to them, Castiel lost no time in punching Lester in the stomach. Lester grunted and doubled over, straining against Dean’s grip. Gripping Lester’s hair, Castiel pulled his head back. “Where’s your money?” he demanded, his eyes narrowed and fierce in the way that never ceased to quicken Dean’s pulse.

“In my vest pocket,” Lester gasped. 

Castiel dug into his pockets and pulled out a few bills and coins. “Where’s the rest?” 

“That’s it, I swear.” He went rigid when Castiel pressed the knife to his neck. “I lost the rest in the last game I played, please, that’s all I have.” 

Castiel’s eyes flicked to Dean’s over Lester’s shoulder and Dean huffed, but nodded. Slowly, Castiel pulled his knife away and stepped back. Letting go of Lester, Dean shoved him onto the ground, kicking him in the side for good measure. 

“That’s for takin my money," he said and kicked him again. Lester groaned. “And that’s for losin it.” 

Crouching down, Castiel shoved Lester onto his back. He held his knife over Lester’s face and it glinted in the moonlight. “You try to come after us, retaliate in some way, you’ll pay for it.” 

Lester nodded furiously. In a quick slash, Castiel sliced his blade across Lester’s cheek, causing Lester to cry out in pain. A thin line of blood trickled down his cheekbone to his collar. 

“I suggest you leave town,” Castiel said, standing. He glanced at the entrance to the alley where voices were coming from the main street and grabbed Dean’s arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” 

“You ain’t gonna kill him?” Dean asked as they hurried away from where Lester curled up on the ground. 

Castiel glanced back at Lester. “This is worse. He’ll be looking over his shoulder now, afraid to play another game of poker again.” He grinned at Dean.

“You’re enjoyin this too much," Dean said, only making Castiel’s smile grow. 

At the end of the alleyway, Castiel handed him all the money he’d taken from Lester, save one bill. “For my services,” he said, tucking it into his vest pocket. 

“I didn’t agree to that,” Dean protested. 

“I could take more, but thought you’d like to make the rest up to me in another way.”

Dean swallowed hard. Feigning nonchalance, he shrugged. “I ain’t opposed to it.” 

"That's what I thought," Castiel said casually. He headed down the street to their hotel and Dean followed him, rolling his eyes. Watching the way Castiel had glared at Lester, eyes harsh as ever, had made him wonder if Castiel viewed him the same way. Just another victim to have in his power until he decided to get rid of him. But he didn’t ask it; he thought he already knew the answer. 

"How many days do we have left?" he asked instead, voice loud in the empty street.

Castiel glanced at him. "One. Why?"

"Just countin down the days." Then, unable to resist, he grabbed Castiel’s collar and kissed him. Castiel let out a noise of surprise before relenting and kissing him back.

They broke apart, their eyes meeting, and Dean flushed. Grabbing his arm, Castiel tugged him to the hotel.


	8. Dead of Night

The next day—their last day in Evanston before they would ride out to rob the mail coach—Dean woke to find himself alone in bed. It seemed Castiel couldn't always be trusted to stick around in the mornings. It always a coin toss whether Castiel would be there when he awoke, but, then again, the same was true of whether Dean would find himself leaving the room while Castiel still slept. 

As usual, Dean half expected to see Castiel’s stuff gone too, but when he sat up, he saw Castiel’s saddlebags still sitting on the floor and one of his shirts draped over the washstand. Dean searched for his own undergarments and pants, found them half strewn under the bed, and pulled them on. He didn’t know where Castiel went when he disappeared at times. Likely he just got tired of Dean’s company; with the exceptions of times like last night, he was often still sullen enough during the day when he was around. 

Rising, Dean went to the washstand, wincing a little from the fucking he’d received last night. Throwing Castiel’s shirt aside, he poured water from the quarter-full pitcher into the porcelain bowl. He’d have to go to the front desk and ask for more water. He was pretty sure the clerk knew what was going on in their room—'least heard enough to guess—by the way she avoided their eyes every time they passed her in the foyer. Her loss; he didn’t see a reason to keep it down if she wasn’t going to do anything about it. 

Besides, she wouldn’t have them on her hands anymore after today. Tomorrow the mail coach would ride through the nearby woods right into their ambush. And then they’d go their separate ways. Dean didn’t feel one way or another about it. Way he figured, he’d been hanging around Castiel for long enough; it was time to move on.

As he dried his face with the rough towel provided in the room, he glanced at Castiel’s saddlebags. Castiel had left them open, his money pouch visible inside. Curiosity getting the better of him, Dean sat on the bed and rifled through the bag. Castiel had gone through his shit—now he was returning the favor. 

The small cloth pouch contained Castiel’s money, or some of it. There were only a few bills and coins, but Dean couldn’t find any more money in the rest of the saddlebags. Maybe Castiel was carrying the rest on his person. Wasn’t the smartest idea, but perhaps he trusted Dean less than he did all the other ruffians in town. He needn’t have worried; Dean wouldn’t steal his money unless he was ready to ride hard and fast to lose Castiel, who most certainly would track him down and make him pay. 

Or maybe Castiel had spent most of his money, or lost it during the long nights they spent gambling. But Castiel couldn’t have lost so much so quickly—he never bet very high—and Dean knew he won from time to time. 

With a frown, he set aside Castiel’s money pouch and pushed aside the clothing in the saddlebags, keeping an ear out for footsteps outside the door. No personal effects, no letters, only a pencil, the book Castiel had been reading back at the cabin, and a pouch with rolling papers and tobacco. Dean picked up the book and rifled through the pages before tossing it disinterestedly back into the bag. How people like Castiel or Sam had the patience to sit and read through a whole novel was beyond him.

He was about to push Castiel's bag away when he noticed a piece of cardboard tucked into the folds of a pair of jeans.

A photo, he realized when he picked it up. He studied the image. Two men, one seated, the other—Castiel, Dean realized, peering closer. A younger, clean-shaven Castiel standing with his arm draped over the seated man’s shoulder. _Jimmy,_ Dean thought. His guess was confirmed when he flipped the photo over and read the scrawling words: 

_To my dearest Blue Eyes, on his birthday in the year 1884. Love, Jimmy._

Dean read the words a few times, trying to wrap his mind around them. It was strange enough to picture in what circumstances Castiel would allow someone to drag him to get his photo taken. But this inscription was another thing entirely. _My dearest? Blue Eyes?_ That explained Castiel’s vehement reaction to Dean calling him that nickname.

Dean studied the photo again. So, this was the pastor’s kid. Jimmy was young and clean-shaven too like Castiel. But where Castiel’s eyes were, even back then, serious, Jimmy’s were soft, like the photo was taken right after he'd stopped laughing. Peering closer, Dean spotted a necklace around Jimmy’s neck. He was willing to bet it was the same one Castiel wore now.

The photo wasn’t very expressive by any means, but he would’ve guessed the two men pictured were more than just casual friends even without the inscription. Something in the way Jimmy was angled slightly towards Castiel, in Castiel’s hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, their relaxed stances despite the photographer's positioning. 

So, Castiel was more sentimental than he let on, while sober at least. Carrying around a photo of a former partner. Dean hadn’t known Castiel had it in him. Despite his attempt at indifference, something welled in him, a strange sadness for this Castiel, this younger, presumably happier Castiel. Tucking the photo back into the pair of jeans, he returned Castiel’s bags back to how they were, and not a moment too soon because as he stood to finish dressing, Castiel returned. 

“Where were you?” Dean asked as Castiel shut the door behind himself. 

“Out.” He tossed a newspaper onto the bed and went to the washbowl. “This for you?”

“What?” Dean picked up the paper and scanned the page it was folded to. His eyes fell to an ad:

_SW looking for Dean Winchester. I will be in Lawrence early Sept., Green River from Sept. 25 to end of the month. Would like to meet up. Any information about DW appreciated._

It took him a while to puzzle out ‘Sept,’ then ‘appreciated,’ which distracted him from the overall message of the ad. Then he re-read it, his frown growing. 

“What—when—?” He flipped to the front page. It was marked two days ago.

“We’re nearly out of water,” Castiel said, rinsing his hands in the bowl. He looked over his shoulder at Dean. “That’s from your brother, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Dean replied slowly. He re-read the ad, then glanced at the empty pitcher. “And I know. I’ll go tell that lady to bring over more water.” 

Castiel dried his hands on the towel. “You gonna reply?”

“No,” Dean decided, dropping the newspaper on the bed. Lifting up the covers on the bed, he finally found his shirt twisted in the blankets. “What?” he asked harshly as he pulled it on, knowing Castiel was watching him.

“Sounds like he’s worried if you’re alive or not.” Castiel sat on the bed and pointed at the ad. “‘Any information appreciated.’”

“He knows I’m alive.” But Castiel had a point. “Maybe… maybe I’ll just put an ad in to tell him I’m still livin. I don’t wanna meet up, though.”

“You can write it out now and give it to the newspaper office in town.” Castiel leaned forward to drag his bags towards him. “I think I got a pencil in my bag.”

Dean nearly confirmed the fact, then remembered he wasn’t supposed to know what was in Castiel’s bags. He studied Castiel. _1884._ Only five years ago. He was basing all this off a photo, but he had an inkling the Castiel he saw now wasn’t at all like the one back then. 

Castiel handed him the pencil and Dean sat down on the bed. He turned the newspaper to find a blank spot to write in the margins. He cleared his throat. “Guess I’ll say, um…”

“You could always just meet up with him and get it over with.”

“No, I don’t want to.” He fiddled with the pencil, then frowned at Castiel. “And why do you care?”

Castiel raised his hands and stood. “I don’t. Just thought, he’s your closest relation, don’t see why you’ve cut all ties.”

“This ain’t none of your goddamn business, butt out.” 

“Fine.” Castiel grabbed the pitcher. “I’ll get the water.” 

He left and Dean studied the ad. He couldn’t deny a desire to see Sam. Maybe he only felt bad the poor bastard was desperate enough to put ads in the paper. 

Painstakingly, he scratched out, _Am in Eva—_ he guessed how to spell the rest of that word. _Can meet Sept. 27._ That was nearly a week away, enough time for Sam to show up. Also enough time for Dean to change his mind. 

_I’m alive,_ he added then scratched that out because of course he was—he was writing the damn ad, wasn’t he? He stared at his cramped writing, the letters wobbled and thick. What town should he tell Sam to meet him, and where in town?

Castiel returned, water slipping down the neck of the pitcher, as Dean tried to figure out how to write Piedmont. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, crushing the lead into the soft paper. He threw the pencil and newspaper to the side. “I’ll finish it later,” he said to Castiel’s quizzical look. 

Before he could stop him, Castiel picked up the paper. He squinted at Dean’s handwriting and Dean reddened. “It’s E-V-A-N,” he said, grabbing the pencil and scribbling it down.

“Well, aren’t you smart?” Dean asked sarcastically. 

“You have to say who you are first, Sam won’t know otherwise.”

“If you’re so invested, write the damn ad yourself!” Dean stood and walked to the window. Two men loaded a wagon with crates and barrels in front of the general store across the street. He could just barely make out the sound of their voices, carried on the wind. 

" _Do_ you want me to write it?” Castiel asked hesitantly.

“No!” Dean turned to look at him. “Forget it. I ain’t meetin up with him.”

“Tell me what you want to say and I’ll write it down.”

“I can write it myself, I know how to write.” He crossed his arms. “Just haven’t written in a while.”

Castiel shrugged. “There’s better skills to have anyway, like firing a gun and hitting your mark.” He turned the newspaper around and poised his pencil over the margin.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Just have it say, I don’t know… I saw the ad and I can meet up in Piedmont on September 27. He’ll know where in town.”

Castiel nodded and started writing. Dean turned back to the window to hide how warm his face had gotten. As if it wasn’t bad enough Castiel knew about Sam, now he was writing Dean’s damn correspondences. It was true Dean hadn’t gotten much schooling, but he’d never cared much since he never enjoyed learning the three r’s anyway. He knew enough to puzzle out the letters he received—at least, long as Sam didn’t use any big words—and never saw the point in learning anything else. Though, he had to admit, there were times he’d wished he could scratch out a letter to Lisa.

“Here we go,” Castiel said. He read aloud, “DW is alive and well in Evanston. Can meet SW in Piedmont on September 27.”

“Great.” Dean snatched the newspaper from Castiel and ripped out the page he’d written on. “I’ll go and buy an ad.”

“What’s in Piedmont, that you and Sam know where to meet?”

Dean pulled on his vest. “We traveled through there a couple of times with our pa. One of the few saloons that never banned him from coming back.”

Castiel was tucking his pencil back in his bag, and Dean considered bringing up the photo. Not seriously, though. Even he wasn’t reckless enough to do so. Castiel would either kill him or grab his shit and leave—probably both, in that order. 

“Your pa sounds like he was quite the character,” Castiel said, looking up at Dean, and Dean turned away. 

“Yeah, well, that’s one way to put it. I’ll be back.” He left, shutting the door behind him. No, he wasn’t going to mention the photo if he wanted to keep living. Besides, he wasn’t sure what Castiel would say about it even if he was inclined to talk first and shoot later. There was some shit that lived in the past and needed to stay there. 

•◊•◊•◊•

They left the gambling hall late that night, much to Castiel's annoyance, who kept insisting they needed an early start the next morning. Dean finally let him drag him away from a winning streak and they headed back to the hotel, the warmth and claustrophobia inside the hall replaced by the night chill and sparsely populated street.

“I’ve never won so much in one night,” Dean said, draping his arm over Castiel’s shoulders as they turned down the alleyway they always took back to their hotel. He was drunk enough to be in a good mood, but not enough to be surprised when Castiel pushed his arm off. “What’s wrong, Cas? You ain’t in the celebratin mood? You lose all your money?” Vaguely he remembered rooting through Castiel’s pack that morning and finding little money. 

“I did well enough,” Castiel answered haughtily.

“Hey,” Dean said, not really listening. “Where do you go some mornins? What’re you doin?” 

“Just getting some space." _God,_ _it must be miserable to be sober all the time,_ Dean thought. No wonder Castiel always acted like he had a stick up his ass. “Gets tiresome being around you day in, day out.” 

“Hope you’re not wantin any space tonight.” Dean tried to pull Castiel closer. “Last chance before we split up.” Tomorrow they’d rob the mail coach and then life would go back to normal, like they had never even met. It’d been fun while it lasted.

Castiel took a quick glance behind them. Dean followed his gaze, registering that the street was deserted, before yelping when Castiel pushed him up against the building to his right. 

Castiel’s mouth was on his before he could blink. His hat fell off as Castiel kissed him roughly, but he yielded easily enough, sinking back against the wall, clutching at Castiel’s shirt. Castiel stepped between his legs, pinning him against the wall and grinding against him. 

“Hey!” came from down the alley. Castiel pulled back quickly, and Dean blinked, trying to catch his breath. He peered in the darkness to see who had called. 

Two men were walking towards them and Castiel whispered, “Shit." He turned as if to run, then stopped short. Dean realized another man was walking towards them from the opposite end of the alley. 

“Can’t run now, Castiel,” one of the men called. 

“Why do they know your—” Dean started and Castiel hushed him harshly. Slowly, he faced the two men approaching from the main road, pulling his shoulders back.

Ignoring Castiel’s warning, Dean stepped away from the wall. “Who the fuck are you guys?” he asked. “You mad Cas hustled you at poker? You can’t prove anythin.” 

“Shut up, Dean,” Castiel hissed. 

One of the men laughed, a bearded man with a crooked gait. “We interrupt something, Cas? Always thought there was somethin off about you, shoulda figured you were a queer.” 

Dean bristled at the word, but Castiel kept quiet. The bearded man and a tall, spindly one stopped a few feet in front of them, and Dean saw the glint of a revolver when the bearded man pulled back his coat. 

“Ishim,” Castiel glowered. “Didn’t expect to see you 'round these parts.” 

“Thought I’d hung?” the bearded man, Ishim, asked. 

“Wished we’d hung,” said the dark-skinned man blocking Dean and Castiel’s way out of the alley towards the hotel. 

Looking over his shoulder, Dean stared at him, then back at Ishim. “I feel a little left out, fellas,” he said. “You wanna tell me what’s goin on?” 

“Meet the Rogues, as they like to call themselves. The gang I rode with.” Castiel crossed his arms and stared down Ishim. “Well, what’s left of them.” 

“That’s all your fault,” Ishim said darkly. 

Dean blinked at Castiel, trying to rouse his brain enough from its drunken stupor to grasp his words. “You said they got caught," he said slowly. "You didn’t say they were after you.” 

“Aww, Cas.” Ishim laughed. “You didn’t think you were gonna get away with what you did to us, now did you?” 

“Listen,” Dean said, seeing Castiel clench his hands into fists. “I ain’t involved in any of this shit, if it’s Castiel you’re after, you can have him.” 

“A coward, just like Castiel,” the man behind them said. “Fitting.” 

Turning to glare at him, Dean started to speak, but Castiel silenced him, holding up his hand.

“What do you want with me?” he asked, staring down Ishim.

“We want you to pay for what you’ve done,” the tall man spoke up. “We want you to pay like Bartholomew did! He’s dead because you turned tail and ran!” 

"Efram's right," the man behind them said. “We swore to help each other out,” 

“That robbery was doomed from the start,” Castiel retorted, turning to look at all of them. “Any of you would’ve done the same in my shoes. I saved my own skin and I don’t regret it.” He glanced at the tall man, Efram. “But I never wanted Bartholomew to hang. I’m sorry it happened.” 

Ishim scoffed. “A little late for apologies now. You’re not getting away that easy.”

Dean watched Castiel, worry at their situation clearing his mind, drunken haziness replaced by genuine apprehension. 

“You’re right,” Castiel said, his hand creeping to his gun belt. “I’m not going to make it easy for you.”

Before Dean could figure out whether to join the fight that was soon to follow, or try and get out as fast as he could, the man behind him barreled past, knocking him onto his ass and grabbing Castiel, pinning his arms behind him. 

“Shit,” Dean swore, trying to get up. 

Efram drew a gun on him. “Stay out of this." Dean sunk back down onto his knees, hands up. 

Ishim strode over to Castiel and punched him in the stomach. Castiel doubled over with a gasp, and Dean yelled, “Hey!” He paid for it immediately when, lightning quick, Efram struck him across the face with his gun. 

His head hit the ground with a crack of pain, and he groaned, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Blinking away the darkness that crowded his vision, he watched Ishim punch Castiel in the face, then again, Castiel’s head snapping to the side with every blow. Dean forced himself up to sit and spat blood, eyeing Efram, his head reeling.

“I’ll fucking kill you all," Castiel growled when Ishim paused briefly in his assault. Blood dripped from his mouth as he glared up at Ishim. Still dazed, Dean watched, every muscle tense. Efram’s gun stayed trained on his head and he didn’t dare move.

“I’d like to see you try,” Ishim scoffed. The man holding Castiel threw him to the ground and kicked at him. Swearing, Castiel tried to rise, but received another kick to the stomach that sent him back down with a grunt. 

“Give him one for me too, Raphael,” Efram laughed, turning his head a little to watch the beating. It took Dean a moment to notice the opportunity, then without a second thought he threw himself forward and tackled Efram.

The distracted man let out a grunt hitting the ground and Dean scrambled to wrest his gun from his grip. Loud swearing caught his attention and he saw a glimpse of Castiel grabbing Ishim’s leg and yanking him to the ground.

Efram struggled under Dean, but Dean managed to wrench the gun from his hands. Then a white light exploded across his vision as Efram headbutted him. Dean fell back, blinking away the tears that involuntarily sprung to his eyes. Even so, he managed to keep a hold on the gun and kick at Efram as he tried to grab it back. 

“You motherfucking—” Efram yelled, whatever insult he was about to spit cut off when Dean swung the gun up and pistol whipped him across the face. He crumpled to the ground. 

Painfully sober now, Dean stumbled to his feet. Raphael was trying to pull Castiel off of Ishim to no avail. He tried grabbing Castiel’s arm and Castiel bit his hand fiercely. With a yell, Raphael reared back, then grabbed Castiel by the hair and yanked him off. Castiel let out a cry of pain and covered his face to shield himself from a kick.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Dean fired. Raphael fell back against the alley wall, a spray of blood erupting from his chest. Castiel startled and looked up. Blood streamed from his nose and his eyes widened. “Look out!” he yelled. 

Dean didn’t have a chance to move, to react, when a shot rang out behind him. At the same time, a blow like he had been kicked in the back punched a strained yell out of him. 

He landed hard on his stomach, the air knocked out of his lungs. His chest spasmed as he gasped, his fingers curling into the dirt. 

Several more shots rang out as he lay there, the loud ringing echoing in his ears. It must’ve only been seconds, but it felt like he’d been drowning for ages when finally cold air filled his lungs in quick gulps. Another shot rang out and he flinched, but the groan he heard next wasn’t his own. Coughing, he tried to get to his knees, to get out of the way. 

And then the pain hit him. 

His legs buckled and he landed on his back. He tried to make a sound, to call out, but the pain seized his chest so he couldn't breathe again. Pressing his hand to his chest, he felt a warm wetness on his palm. Slowly, he lifted his head and looked down at himself. Blood, and lots of it, seeped through his shirt. On one level, he realized he’d been shot, but the loudest voice in his head told him it was a fire lit under his body. 

Cursing and yelling echoed in the alley as he lay there too stunned to move, then Castiel was crouched over him, grabbing his face, his shoulders. “Dean!”

The jarring movement shocked Dean's senses back into him. “Fuck, Cas, stop!” He reached out and was shocked by the blood covering his hands. That bastard had had another gun, he should’ve checked, he shouldn’t have turned his back… 

“Shit!” Castiel looked down the alleyway in one direction, then the other. His eyes were frantic when he stared back down at Dean. “We have to get out of here, quick. Can you move?”

Dean nodded, more out of hope than anything. He tried to push himself up slowly to sit, but Castiel wasn’t so patient. Grabbing Dean under his arms, he yanked him to his feet.

Dean yelled out in pain and tried to get out of Castiel’s grip. “What the fuck are you—?” His last words came out half choked as the pain in his side grew, threatening to overwhelm him. 

“Come on, Dean, work with me.” Castiel slung one of Dean’s arms over his shoulder, supporting him on the side that wasn’t on fire. “Ishim got away, he’ll be back, he'll come for us." 

Gritting his teeth, Dean let Castiel half drag him, half help him walk to the end of the alleyway. He stumbled once, then found his footing. “You son of a bitch,” he managed. “You knew they were after you.” 

“Not now,” Castiel muttered. Light from the hotel windows washed the street, and Castiel pulled him up the hotel steps and into the foyer. 

“Oh my Lord!” 

Dean raised his head to see the hotel clerk running out from behind her desk. “He got shot,” Castiel explained unnecessarily, lowering him to the ground. Dean sat heavily on the wooden floor and swayed, nearly falling over. Castiel grabbed his shoulder to hold him up, and Dean blinked, tried to focus his eyes on Castiel’s face. 

A sudden pressure to his wound sent sparks in his vision and he swore, would’ve fallen over if Castiel hadn’t gripped his arm. “Have to stop the bleeding," Castiel said. Dean looked down to see he was pressing a hand to the bloody mess on his upper left side, midway between shoulder and waist.

“Do you have any bandages?” Castiel asked the hotel owner. 

“Yes, I think so—” 

“Then fucking grab them!” Castiel barked and she ran to her desk. Ducking his head to meet Dean's eyes, he said, “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna grab our stuff, alright? We need to go.” 

Dean tried to nod and Castiel grabbed his hand, pressed it to the wound. “Hold your hand there.” 

Gritting his teeth, Dean tried to keep pressure on his side as Castiel let go of him and ran down the hallway to their room. He braced himself with his other hand on the floor, noticed his blood staining the wooden floorboards from his hand. 

He looked down at his side again. His shirt and even his jeans were sodden and deep red, but there was no burning. Almost curiously, he pressed his hand into his side and marveled at the absence of pain. Someone touched his shoulder and he startled. 

The clerk was kneeling at his side. “Are you alright?” she asked, her voice sounding far away. “How bad is it?” 

Dean shook his head. “I’m fine.” His words echoed in his head. 

“Here, let me." She pulled his hand away from his ribs and pressed a white cloth to the wound. Dean watched the fabric turn red. “The bullet went straight through,” she said, inspecting his front. “Hold this.” She brought Dean’s hand to the cloth and grabbed another one to hold to the entry hole on his back. 

“Dean!” 

Dean looked up to see Castiel running over with their bags slung over his shoulders. He dropped the bags and knelt at his side. “You with us?” Dean nodded. “We have to go.” 

“You can’t leave,” the clerk protested. “He’s bleeding out.”

“No, I can ride, I’m fine." He wasn’t so sure it was true, but the simple fact he could breathe without coughing up blood had to mean he wasn’t done for—he could hope—and a numbing had spread over his entire left side. Better to move now before the pain returned, before Ishim found them and made them pay.

Castiel grabbed the bandaging the hotel clerk had brought over and lifted up Dean’s shirt. “Shit,” he breathed. “This is a lot of blood.” 

“You’re hurt too—” the clerk started. 

“I’m fine,” Castiel snapped. Dean watched him wrap the bandaging around his chest, holding the cloths in place over the entry and exit holes. Blood was smeared across Castiel’s face and his lip was split, a bruise forming under one eye. 

“I’m going to get the horses.” Castiel tore off the roll of bandaging with his teeth. “Stay here.” 

As if he was going to go anywhere. Dean nodded anyway. He felt incredibly tired all of a sudden. Castiel pulled his shirt down over the bandaging, then left through the hotel doors into the dark street. 

“Oh, dear. I’ll, um, I’ll grab some towels." The clerk hurried off and Dean searched in his bags for his gun belt, panicked when he didn’t feel his Colt, then noticed it lying next to him where Castiel must have brought it.

Picking it up, he checked the barrel and watched the hotel doors, forcing himself to stay awake and aware in case Ishim came back.

The clerk returned with a damp towel and Dean half-heartedly wiped at his hands, accomplishing only in smearing the blood. 

The hotel doors bursting open made him startle, but it was only Castiel. “Come on,” he said, running to Dean’s side and helping him to his feet. The movement induced a shock of pain in his chest, like a knife between his ribs, and Dean swayed a little. With a sharp intake of breath, he grabbed Castiel’s arm to steady himself. 

“Just a few miles out of town,” Castiel said, stooping to pick up their bags. “Just to get away from Ishim. Who knows how many other bastards he’ll round up to find us.” He wheeled on the clerk. “If anyone asks for us, don’t you dare say a fucking word.” She nodded quickly.

“Let’s go,” Dean said. He wiped his hands on his jeans and took a hesitant step forward. Castiel clutched his elbow, and they made their way into the street where their horses stood.

"Wait, take this!" The clerk ran outside after them and handed Castiel a small leather bag. "This is our first aid kit, there's more bandages inside—"

Castiel nodded hurriedly. "Thank you." Grabbing Dusty’s reins, he asked Dean, “You need help?”

“I got it,” Dean said for appearance’s sake, but he let Castiel help him mount all the same, biting his tongue to not let out a string of curses at the stabbing pain the movement caused. The numbness was quickly subsiding, replaced by the burning. Sweat dripped down his back under his clothes and he wanted to pull his coat off, didn’t know how he’d manage to do so. 

Castiel fastened his bags behind his saddle and mounted Halo. “We have to ride fast.” Dean nodded and Castiel flicked his reins. 

They rode out of town, galloping over the uneven ground, and Dean swore under his breath at the jostling. He tried to focus on gripping the reins in his hands and following Castiel. He couldn’t tell if black spots were filling his vision or if it was just too dark to see by. His breathing was strained; his chest felt too tight. Slumping down lower and lower, he grabbed onto his saddle horn to keep himself in the saddle. 

Castiel glanced back at him and slowed Halo. Dean couldn’t read his expression in the dark, but his voice was worried when he called, “Dean?” 

“I’m fine,” Dean said, or tried to say, or maybe just thought the words, but all of a sudden, he felt hot all over, like he was burning up with a fever, and the reins fell from his hands and the sky tipped. 

He came to slowly, the packed earth under his back, Castiel gripping his wrist and calling his name, his voice distraught. “Dean, come on, wake up, please.”

Dean groaned, his mind registering every ache in his body and that godawful burning in his side. Opening his eyes, he saw Castiel kneeling next to him, the starry sky swirling above them. 

“Dean, I'm sorry, fuck." Castiel sat back on his heels. "We can’t stay here.” 

“No shit,” Dean managed. 

Castiel pulled up his shirt to look at the bandaging and bit his lip. He met Dean's eyes. “This is gonna hurt, but I’ve gotta get us outta here.” 

Dean didn’t have a chance to ask what that meant exactly because then Castiel was hauling him to his feet and everything went black. 

He regained consciousness as Castiel dragged him to Halo. “Fuck,” Castiel muttered, breathing hard. “Come on, Dean, help me out.” 

Trying to focus his eyes and keep from passing out again, Dean grabbed the saddle horn and, with Castiel’s help, mounted Halo. The effort sent his head spinning again and Castiel grabbed his arm to keep him in the saddle. Only half aware of what was going on, Dean managed to stay conscious and upright as Castiel tied Dusty’s reins to Halo and mounted behind him. 

“Just a little longer,” he said, wrapping one arm around Dean’s waist. Grabbing his reins, he urged Halo to a quick gallop, and Dean passed out again.


	9. Finish the Fight

Dean passed in and out of consciousness, catching glimpses of what was going on before growing dizzy again, his vision going dark. Wind on his face, quick hooves stamping the ground, stopping with a jolt, the weightlessness of nearly falling off the saddle, and Castiel catching him, swearing. 

Then pain. A burning sensation in his side and pounding in his head. Dean opened his eyes slowly to wooden beams overhead. No dizziness, just a clear, throbbing wakefulness like he’d spent the last night drinking his weight in liquor.

“Dean!” 

Someone grabbed his hand and he thought for a moment that it might be Sam, that Sam had found him lying in an alley in Lawrence and dragged him back home. But then Castiel’s worried face appeared above him and Dean groaned and shut his eyes again. 

“No, please, Dean, stay awake,” Castiel urged, squeezing his hand. 

Trying to nod, Dean opened his eyes again. “Alright, alright, I’m awake.” His voice cracked and he swallowed, tried to look around. He was lying on a bed, Castiel sitting next to him on the mattress.

“Thank God,” Castiel breathed. “You were out for so long, I was afraid—” He cut himself off and leaned forward to grab a mug from the floor. Dean tried to lift a hand to take it, but a jolt of pain ran through his side and he dropped his hand back to the sheets.

“Hold on, I got it.” Castiel put a hand to the back of Dean’s head to prop him up. Dean tried to protest, face reddening at his weakness, but then Castiel brought the mug to his mouth and he forgot his embarrassment in gulping down the cold water. 

After he drained the mug, Castiel lowered his head back onto the pillow and Dean looked around the room. 

“Where are we?” He was lying on top of the covers of the bed, boots still on, his shirt off, in its place a thick white bandage wrapped around his chest. 

“That cabin we stayed at before.”

Dean tried to look at the bandaging. “How bad is it?” 

“You lost a lot of blood, but I stitched you up, finished bandaging the wound not too long ago. How do you feel?”

Dean huffed, then winced, the expansion of his chest piercing his ribs. “Like shit," he said, his voice strained. "What do you think?”

“The bullet probably cracked some of your ribs, I’m not sure," Castiel said, ignoring the jab. "I don’t think it hit anything vital. A little to the left and it would’ve been just a bad graze, but you’re not that lucky.”

“Story of my life,” Dean muttered. “Well, I’m not dead yet. Where’s my flask?” Castiel stood and Dean watched him root through their bags and clothes on the floor. The prior night's events came back to him and he remembered how he’d gotten shot in the first place. “How did those fuckers find you—the Rogues, or whatever they call themselves? You never told me they were after you.” 

Retrieving the flask, Castiel handed it to him and sat back on the bed. Though his hand trembled, Dean unscrewed it and lifted his head to take one long pull, then another. 

“The gang,” he prompted, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. 

Castiel sighed. “I didn’t know for sure that they were after me. I mean, I assumed they wanted revenge, but I’ve been traveling so much, I thought I’d made it damn near impossible for them to find me.” He held his hand out for the flask and Dean frowned. “Think I’m entitled to a drink after all the shit that happened.” 

Dean handed it to him and watched him take a long drink. Blood had dried on his face and neck, staining his silver necklace, and a dark purple bruise covered his right cheekbone. “You didn’t think to give me a heads up?”

Castiel lowered the flask. “Didn’t think it was important.” Dean started to protest and Castiel shook his head. “I didn’t think they’d find me, why worry you? Just unlucky that they found me in Evanston.”

Dean took the flask from him. “You knew I would’ve never started travelin with you if you told me the truth.” Castiel looked away quickly, twisting his fingers together. “Damn you,” Dean swore. His hand shook as he took another drink from his flask and swallowed hard. “Fuck, Cas! I coulda died!” Might still die, he realized, if infection got him. He couldn’t think of that; he wasn’t going to die from a spat that didn’t even involve him.

Castiel crossed his arms, his hands and shirt sleeves stained with blood— _my blood,_ Dean realized with a start. “I know it,” he said quietly. Lowering his flask, Dean looked down at himself, at the blood on his chest and jeans. “Look… I’m sorry, alright?” Castiel said the words like they took all his effort to say. “Never thought you’d get caught in the middle of it.” 

“Much good an apology’s gonna do now,” Dean said. He raised his flask again and Castiel reached for it. 

“That’s enough for now, you lost a lot of blood—” 

“Fuck off,” Dean snapped. “I nearly died, ‘least you can do is let me get drunk.” 

“Fine,” Castiel answered shortly. He stood. “I’m gonna grab some water to clean up.” 

_Fuck,_ Dean thought as Castiel left the room. He stared up at the ceiling. How had he been so stupid? Turning his back on a potentially armed man? That son of a bitch from the Rogues had shot him and he'd passed out like some pussy. His hand trembled a little as he lifted his flask again to take another drink. _Fuck._

Castiel returned with a bucket and a rag, his hands dripping wet and clean from Dean’s blood. He dipped the rag into the water, but Dean took it from him before he could reach over and use it on him. 

“Can do it myself,” he muttered, struggling to sit up. Castiel put out a hand to stop him and Dean smacked his hand away. “I got it!” With a jolt of pain, he slid up slightly, resting his head on the wall behind the bed. He tried to catch his breath, his head spinning from the minimal exertion. 

“You gotta stop moving around so much, those stitches—” 

“I’m fine!” 

Raising his hands in defeat, Castiel stepped away and pulled off his bloody shirt. He glanced down at his necklace and pulled it off, staring at it for a long moment. Then he dipped it into the bucket and carefully cleaned the blood away before returning the chain to his neck.

“What’d they mean?” Dean asked, wiping the blood from his arms and chest, trying to ignore the sharp stabbing in his ribs. “All that shit about you betrayin them?” 

Castiel crumpled up his bloody shirt in his hands. He started to speak, then stopped and sighed. He threw his shirt on the ground and picked up a clean one. “I was supposed to keep watch outside a bank as the others held up the teller inside. It was already risky, it was more crowded than we’d expected, and I had my doubts, but Ishim insisted we follow through with the plan. When I saw the sheriff coming, though, I figured I’d cut my losses and make a run for it, ‘stead of going into the bank and warning the others.” He buttoned up his shirt. “I left town and heard they got arrested. Thought that was the end of it. Then I heard Bartholomew hung, but the others escaped, so I figured I should keep my distance.” 

“Pretty shitty thing to do,” Dean said, dropping the rag over the side of the bed into the bucket with a splash. He slid down onto his back to ease the strain on his wound. “That what you were plannin to do when we robbed the mail coach? Turn tail at the first sign of trouble?” 

“No.” Castiel held his gaze. “I’m not a coward. I know betraying them was a shitty thing to do. Wasn’t like me. I’m not going to make it a habit.” 

“You know I don’t put any stake in your word, right?” 

Castiel shrugged. “Trust me or not, it’s your choice. I’ve proved myself before, saved your life today. If there was ever a time to run, it would’ve been last night. That’s gotta prove something.” 

Dean bit back the, _you’re the one who got me shot in the first place!_ that jumped to the tip of his tongue. He was too damn tired and aching and stiff. This is what he got for partnering up with an outlaw he didn’t know a mite about. He closed his eyes, more exhausted from the act of wiping blood off himself than he wanted to admit. 

“I’m taking this,” Castiel said, and Dean opened his eyes to see him plucking his flask from off the bed. 

“Give that back—” 

“I’m gonna make some food, you rest.” 

“Cas, I swear to God, give it back—” 

Castiel held up the flask and walked out of the room. “Come and take it from me if you really want it.” 

“You fucking asshole!” Dean yelled. He thought he heard Castiel laugh from the kitchen. Sure, this was funny to him. He wasn’t the one with a bullet-sized hole between his ribs. 

He thought about getting up, but he knew he wouldn’t make it two steps. Fuming, he listened to Castiel moving around in the kitchen and must’ve fallen asleep because suddenly the room was cast in grey light and Castiel was carrying two bowls into the room. 

Groggily, he swore and tried to sit up. Castiel set the bowls down on the floor and put a hand on his shoulder. “Shit, Dean, hold on a second.” Folding up his coat, he propped it underneath the pillow under Dean’s head. Dean let him, partially because the sudden movement he’d made upon waking left him feeling nauseous and because sleep had left him stiff. 

“Here,” Castiel said, handing him a bowl of stew. He lit the lamp sitting on the chest at the foot of the bed, and sat on the edge of the mattress next to Dean. 

“Where’s my flask?” Dean asked, remembering where they’d left off before he fell asleep. 

“Will you just shut up and eat? How's the pain?”

"Horrible. Excruciating."

Castiel rolled his eyes and picked up his spoon. "I'll bring it over after you finish that." 

Grumbling, Dean ate, his first spoonful making him realize how hungry he was. The quiet of the room, small clanks of their spoons in their bowls, was grating and he asked, “You sure you stitched me up right? How do you know the bullet didn’t hit anythin important?” 

“Because you wouldn’t be awake to bitch and moan right now.” 

“Get used to it. This is all your fault.” 

Castiel huffed, but didn’t retort, which Dean took as an admission of guilt. _Good,_ he thought. Not that Castiel had a sorry bone in his body, but at least he knew when he’d fucked up. 

After they finished eating, Castiel brought him coffee, which he said he’d spiked with whiskey, though it didn’t taste like such. But Dean could already feel the effect of the whiskey he’d drunk earlier, and he took that as a positive. The quicker he could get drunk, the better. The holes where the bullet had passed through his body were tight from the stitching Castiel had done and seared with a low, constant intensity.

“Alright,” Castiel said, motioning at Dean, “scoot over.”

“What? You think you’re sleepin here tonight?” Dean drained his cup. “This is my bed now, motherfucker.” He set the empty cup on the floor, a movement which made him suck in his breath sharply, and looked up at Castiel defiantly. 

In response, Castiel grabbed his arm and pulled him to the edge of the bed, more roughly than needed, Dean knew. 

“Fuck, Cas!” Dean blinked, trying to steady his vision. He caught the amusement on Castiel’s face as he tugged at the sheets Dean was lying on top of. 

“You gonna sleep in your boots?” he asked. 

Dean looked down at them and realized there was no way he was gonna be able to reach down and pull them off. “Yes."

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I’ll do it.” Dean started to protest, but he wasn’t keen on sleeping hot and uncomfortable, so he relented, letting Castiel tug them off and throw them on the floor. 

His blood was dried stiff on his jeans so he unbuttoned them and slid them off, ignoring the sharp pains in his side. Castiel crawled over him to lie on the side of the bed closest to the wall, and yanked his folded coat out from under Dean’s head. 

“Ow,” Dean complained. “Some nurse you are.” 

“I’m not a fucking nurse,” Castiel said, then sighed. “Right. You can’t get the light.” He leaned over Dean to reach the lamp on the chest and his arm brushed Dean’s bandaged wound. 

Dean flinched. “Dammit, Cas.” The room went dark and Castiel lay back, pulling the blankets up over them. 

Dean waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He was in too much pain and too uncomfortable to sleep. Castiel shifted, rolled over. Faint moonlight bled in through the window above their heads. 

“What about Ishim?” he asked. 

“What about him?” Castiel said, his voice muffled. 

“You let him get away, aren’t you worried he’ll come after you?” 

“I didn’t ‘let him get away’.” Castiel rolled over onto his back. “I shot at him and he ran. I’m sure he’s searching Evanston for me. Probably has a vendetta against you now too.” 

“Great. Because the last thing I need is to get shot again.” 

“Then watch your back.” 

Dean kicked at him, then regretted doing so at the stabbing he felt under his ribs. Castiel snorted and rolled back over. “Go to sleep.”

Swearing under his breath, Dean stared up at the ceiling. “I hate you,” he said, forcing as much venom into the words as he could. Castiel didn’t respond and Dean could feel his warm skin against his right arm. Yanking his arm away, he stared up at the ceiling, fuming at the sound of Castiel’s steady breathing.

“I hate you,” he repeated when Castiel came into the room the following morning. He’d woken up even more stiff and cramped than the night before and the room was hot and the light coming in through the window was harsh and his gunshot wound throbbed under his bandaging. 

“I don’t have to be feeding you and taking care of you, you know,” Castiel said, pulling back the plate of food he’d been about to offer.

Dean only stared him down and Castiel smiled a little, handing over the plate. He helped prop Dean up, though Dean protested the whole time.

“Why’d you join a damn gang of outlaws anyway?” Dean asked when he was settled, resting the plate on his legs. He picked up one of the stale corn dodgers on his plate and grimaced. “Or, better question, why’d you have to betray them?” 

“I never said I make smart choices.” There was something ruefully bitter to Castiel’s tone. And Dean couldn’t say he’d done much better with his own life. 

Castel shifted his stance, looking down at the mug of coffee he held in his hands as he continued, “There was never any love lost between me and the Rogues. Joined them when I was at a low point and hated every moment. I don’t regret leaving, though I do wish I hadn’t done so like I did. Only made more problems for myself.” He sat down on the bed and looked at Dean, his eyes serious. “I always had every intention of following through with robbing the mail coach.” 

_Must be feeling pretty guilty over getting me shot,_ Dean thought. Castiel sure was laying it on thick. “Like you said, you were savin yourself." He motioned for Castiel to hand over the cup of coffee he was holding and Castiel did so. "That’s what anyone would do, or ‘least, what I’d do. If the opportunity arose, you’d do it again. Don’t need to pretend anythin different.” 

“I’m not lying—”

“Leave it, Cas.” He was doing Castiel a favor, not pretending to believe his assurances. Anyone would say anything with a guilty conscience. Didn’t mean they’d follow through. Stopped a lot of disappointment and betrayal if you kept things straight and didn’t say what you didn’t mean.

He took a drink of coffee. “Anyway, it don’t matter now. Lost our chance to go after that mail coach.”

“Right.” Castiel studied his hands. “Reckon you’ll be leaving soon as you’re healed enough.”

“Yup.” He didn’t know where he was going to go. Probably best to hightail it out of the area now that he had a target on his back. He had cash to last him a few months if he was smart. “You don’t gotta stay. You can—should—leave now. Get lost before Ishim finds you.”

Castiel shifted. “I don’t have to leave right away. Can stay a few days.”

 _Great,_ Dean thought. _Just great._ Spending the next couple of days in a rickety cabin with Castiel. No saloons in sight, no drunk, rich people to hustle. Just Castiel’s wonderful company and a gunshot wound that made itself known with every movement he made. “Suit yourself,” he mumbled into his cup.

He passed the rest of the day in bed, falling in and out of sleep, Castiel checking on him every couple of hours. He was more attentive than Dean wanted to give him credit for. 

Regardless, he reminded himself, flipping Castiel off as he poked his head into the room again, Castiel had been lying about the gang, had nearly gotten him killed. He really should’ve seen it coming, should’ve never trusted the bastard. He’d known their week in Evanston was too good to be true.

•◊•◊•◊•

The next day, Dean insisted on getting out of bed though he could hardly move his left arm because of the pain in his side. If he had to look up at the ceiling one more time, he’d go crazy.

“You’re looking better,” Castiel said, joining him on the front porch. “You’ll be back to normal in no time.”

“Sooner I can get away from you,” Dean muttered. It was gonna be hell the next few weeks, trying to get far enough away from Ishim. That’s what he got for protecting Castiel. “Does Ishim know this area? You think he’ll search far outside of Evanston for us?” He leaned on one of the porch supports and, at its loud creak, pulled away and looked up at the porch roof. 

“Don’t know.”

The roof held and Dean looked at Castiel. “ _Don’t know_? That’s all? He wants us dead.” 

“All I know is that, for now, we’re safer here than in town. I doubt you want to ride with that injury just yet.” 

“I’m fine,” Dean started, but Castiel was already stepping off the porch. 

“I’ll see to the horses. Since you wanna be up, get breakfast going.” 

Rolling his eyes, Dean went back inside. Putting water to boil on the stove for coffee, he fried some salt pork. Their supplies were scarce and they were dangerously low on the most important supply of all: liquor. Dean wasn’t going to get through the next few days without it. 

When Castiel returned from the stable, Dean pointed to the near empty jug of whiskey. “We’re gonna run out soon.” He sat at the table with his plate and cup of spiked coffee and winced when his side stretched. 

“I’ll ride over to the next settlement and pick up supplies.” Castiel leaned on the table and blew on his hot cup of coffee before drinking from it. 

“You really wanna risk that?” Dean asked. “With Ishim out there?”

“What, you wanna go?” Castiel retorted. “You can’t even sit down and eat without being in pain.”

“I could do it—” Dean started. 

“Last thing we need is you going off alone and passing out, falling off Dusty again.” 

“That ain’t gonna happen again!”

Castiel set his cup down on the table. “I’ll go tomorrow, leave early and travel away from Evanston. No way Ishim is going to be at some random outpost. I'll keep an eye out.” He gestured to Dean. “Lift up your shirt, let me see the bandage.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“I wanna know if the stitches held or if you pulled them out with all your moving around.” 

“Fuck off, Cas. You can stop with the whole carin act. I ain’t fallin for it.” 

Castiel narrowed his eyes at him. “What the hell are you talking about? You hit your head when you fell off your horse?” 

“I’m sayin, you’re tryin to make up for the fact that you got me shot. Well, guess what, I ain’t forgivin you no matter what you do.” 

Castiel laughed. “I’m not trying to get your forgiveness, Dean, because I’m not taking the blame for getting you shot.” He headed to the door. “You wanna take care of yourself? Fine with me. You go on and sit there feeling bad for yourself like a little bitch while I go do something useful, like get wood for the stove.” 

He disappeared outside and Dean yelled, “Fuck you, Cas!” Even yelling hurt. He glared down at his cup. He hated Castiel’s guts, it was official. Let Ishim kill the fucker for all he cared. Maybe he would leave now, ditch Castiel, bullet wound be damned. 

At another twinge of pain in his side, he lifted up his shirt and looked at the bandaging. No bleeding, at least. He’d really gotten himself into a fix this time. A pissed off outlaw after him, an equally annoying thief staying with him, a hole in his chest. A thought crossed his mind of fleeing to Stanford, taking Sam up on his offer to join him there. 

“Fuck!” he swore aloud. He’d forgotten all about the ad, about promising to meet Sam on the 27th. He was disoriented enough to not even know how many days away that was. 

There was no way he was going to meet Sam now. Not because he could hardly ride, but because he knew what Sam’s reaction would be seeing him in this state. Worry, chiding him, the “I-told-you-so” look in his eyes. 

Rubbing his hand over his face, Dean swore again. What the fuck was he going to do? Damn Castiel, damn Ishim. Damn his whole fucking life. 

Exhaling, he dropped his hands and stared at his empty plate. His pa would skin his hide if he was around to see how Dean was acting. A memory surfaced in his mind of a fight he’d gotten into, the same summer his pa got a job at a ranch and sent him and Sam to school. Dean had come home with a black eye and a bloody nose, and all his pa had asked was, “Did you finish the fight?” And when Dean admitted that, no, he’d run away before the other boy could do worse, his pa sent him back out to teach the boy a lesson and prove he wasn’t a pussy. 

And eight-year-old Dean had done it, which was more than he had done when Ishim and the others cornered him and Castiel in the alley. Those sons of bitches had called him queer, gotten the upper hand, and though Dean had killed one of them, Ishim had gotten away. Now Dean had a target on his back as much as Castiel. 

_Only one thing to do,_ he thought bitterly.

“Cas,” he called, stepping outside. Castiel looked up from where he was splitting wood at the side of the house, his expression clearly reading an annoyed, _what now?_

Dean walked to the edge of the porch. “I’m not gonna sit around waitin for Ishim to find us. We’re gonna go after him and kill him.” 

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “You really want to do that?”

“Ishim’s my problem now too—you made sure of that. And I ain’t goin on the run like you’ve been for the past month." He forced the next words out. "So you gonna help me kill the son of a whore or not?”

Castiel studied him for a long moment, then he smiled a little. “Guess I will. ‘Bout time to set things right.” 

“Good.” Castiel had unbuttoned his shirt and Dean forgot himself for a moment looking at the way it clung to his sweat-sheened skin. Then he remembered they were fighting and jabbed his finger at Castiel. “I’m still pissed at you, though.” 

Castiel’s smile grew. “What’s new, Winchester?” 

He let Castiel take a look at his wound that night and replace the bandaging. They’d decided to wait a few days before going after Ishim—well, Dean had given in to Castiel’s insistence that he heal up more. Anyway, he knew he wouldn’t be much help now in this state. 

“Looks like the stitches held,” Castiel remarked, standing from where he’d sat next to Dean on the bed, tossing the roll of bandaging into the hotel's medical bag. “No thanks to you.” He picked up his money pouch and rooted through it. “You gonna pitch in for supplies when I go to buy some tomorrow?” 

“You run out of money?” Dean took a drink from his worryingly light flask. He’d love to get blackout drunk, forget the constant throbbing in his ribs. 

“Just figured you’ll be eating most of the food, you should contribute.” 

Too tired to come up with a retort, Dean motioned to his saddlebags, and Castiel went to them and searched for the pouch that held Dean’s money. 

“You know, there’s another reason why we can’t go after Ishim right away,” Castiel said, pouring coins into his palm.

“What’s that?” Dean looked up from pulling off his boots, clenching his jaw at the sharp sear in his ribs. “Woah, that’s more than enough,” he protested at the sight of Castiel taking several bills from his money pouch. 

Castiel rolled his eyes and returned the pouch to Dean’s bag. “You promised to meet your brother two days from now.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Dean tossed his boots towards his saddlebags and one hit Castiel’s leg. Scowling at Dean, Castiel kicked them aside. “Doesn’t matter, I ain’t goin. Plans changed.”

“It isn’t any trouble. Piedmont’s what, a day’s ride from here?”

“I think there’s more important things I gotta do than have a family reunion.” Dean swung his legs carefully up onto the bed, mindful of the way his wound stretched. “Mainly, kill the outlaw on our trail.”

“Maybe your brother can help.” 

Dean laughed, then regretted it at the pain it caused. “You clearly know nothin about Sam.”

Castiel shrugged and came to bed. “Alright.” He turned down the lamp and Dean’s eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. “Though,” Castiel added, getting under the covers next to him, “I don’t think standing him up is gonna improve your relationship any.”

Dean swore inwardly. Of course Castiel would know all about that—he’d read his letters. “Yeah, and what’s it to you?” he demanded. “You read all about our fight in his letters? You sidin with Sam now?” 

“That’s not what I meant, I wasn’t trying to—” Castiel broke off. Dean turned his head to look at his profile. “I didn’t read all your letters,” Castiel said quietly. “I skimmed through them, saw some names and got the gist of them, realized they were private. Didn’t read anything about a fight.”

“Oh.” Dean shifted uncomfortably. Seemed unlikely Castiel would’ve shown him that much consideration, but he didn’t sound like he was lying.

Castiel continued, “Just thought that if I had any living relatives left, I wouldn’t be running from them.” As if as an afterthought, he added, “It isn’t exactly easy riding alone all the damn time.”

“Don’t bother me none,” Dean said quickly. “And I ain’t runnin from him. Sam wanted to go to Stanford, asked me to come with him, and I said no. So we split up.” Then, embarrassed to even be talking about it, he added, “Doubt it’ll hurt his feelins much if I don’t show. He can’t be missin me that much. I replied to his ad, he knows I’m alive.”

“It’s your business,” Castiel said. He rolled over onto his side and the room fell silent. 

Dean was tempted to keep talking, just to keep Castiel awake, because if he couldn’t sleep, then Castiel shouldn’t get to either. He considered once again asking Castiel about that photo of Jimmy. He wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted to learn. Maybe how the fuck a sonuvabitch like Castiel, who had mocked Dean for being sentimental, could carry a photo of a former partner around. Or maybe he just wanted to hold it over Castiel that he knew—Castiel had read his letters, Dean had seen his photo. 

Why the hell did Castiel care whether he saw Sam or not? The sonuvabitch was getting too familiar, thought he could start giving his own two-cents. He didn’t know shit; he didn’t understand. Sam was smart; he knew Dean would only drag him down. That’s why he’d left for the East, why he’d left for Stanford. Dean would be doing him a favor by standing him up because Sam was better off without him, just as Lisa was. And Dean had been on his own plenty throughout his life; he was used to it, if nothing else. Better for him and Sam both if he kept his distance.


	10. Cross to Bear

“No, no, no.”

Dean woke slowly, disoriented and groggy, and a few seconds passed before his mind cleared enough to realize Castiel’s voice had woken him. Frowning, he looked to his left, and in the low light, he could see Castiel lay on his stomach, his eyes closed, one hand gripping the sheets and a frown on his face even in sleep.

“Hey, Cas.” Hesitantly, Dean touched his shoulder. 

“No, no, please, don't go,” Castiel pleaded, quiet and desperate. A crack broke his last whispered word, and a pang ran through Dean’s chest at the anguished sound.

“Cas, come on, wake up.” Sitting up gingerly, he shook Castiel’s shoulder and Castiel startled awake, one hand flying out from under the covers, his eyes shooting open. 

Lifting his head, he looked around frantically, then his eyes settled on Dean and recognition and shame crossed his face. Dropping his head back down onto his makeshift pillow, he shut his eyes and took a shaky breath.

Dean pulled his hand from Castiel’s shoulder. “You alright?” 

“A bad dream,” Castiel said. Opening his eyes, he unclenched his hand from the blankets.

Dean leaned back as Castiel sat up. “Seemed like.” Castiel took another deep breath, and Dean looked away when he wiped hastily at his eyes. “You want a drink?” he asked, starting to push back the covers. 

Castiel shook his head. “No, I, uh—” He sniffed and started to speak, then shook his head again and dropped his head into his hands. 

Dean settled, studied the blankets. The chirping of crickets trickled in through the cracked window and he tried to pretend he didn’t notice the way Castiel’s shoulders shook. 

“Fuck,” Castiel finally managed, lifting his head and wiping at his eyes. “I… I need some air.” Pushing back the blankets, he swung his legs off the bed and left the room.

Dean sat there in the darkness listening to Castiel’s footsteps cross the cabin and the front door creak open. Now fully awake, he once again felt the dull pain in his ribs, and he leaned back against the wall behind the bed. The cool night air whistling through the window raised goosebumps on his skin and he crossed his arms over his bare chest. He didn’t know what Castiel had been dreaming of, but he could guess. Part of him told him it wasn’t his business, but after a moment, he went after Castiel anyway. 

Castiel stood on the porch, trying to roll a smoke, his hands shaking. He swore quietly and looked up when Dean stepped outside into the chilly air.

“Here,” Dean said, taking the rolling paper from his hands and tossing Castiel the shirt he’d seen him discard on the floor before going to bed. 

“You didn’t have to get up—”

“I was awake anyway.” He rolled the smoke as Castiel pulled on his shirt, then stepped into the kitchen to grab a match and light the cigarette. Standing in the dark room, he took a draw to steady himself, then went back outside and handed it to Castiel.

“Sorry I woke you.” The moonlight was just bright enough to illuminate Castiel’s profile as he took the cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“Ain’t no thing.” Dean shoved his hands into his pant pockets and looked out over the yard. Stars littered the sky above the dark, wavering trees which rustled in a breeze, the noise like rushing water loud in the night.

Castiel finally broke the silence. “It’s been a long time since I had that dream.” Dean glanced at him to see him wipe at his eyes. “Fuck.” He took another draw from the cigarette. 

“About Jimmy?” Dean ventured. When Castiel nodded, he asked, hesitantly, “He died, didn’t he?” He didn’t know when he’d figured it out. Something in the way Castiel said Jimmy’s name, carried his photo, wore his necklace. 

“He got trampled on one of our drives,” Castiel answered, not looking at him. “The herd started stampeding and we tried to wrangle them, but Benny fucked up and turned them on us and Jimmy got thrown.” His voice shook. “It was horrible, I didn’t know what to do, I tried to keep him alive, but by the time we got a doctor—” Breaking off, he pulled his necklace from around his neck. The cross hung gleaming from his hand like a drop of water suspended midair. 

“That his?” 

Castiel nodded. “He always wore it. He was… he was wearing it when he died.” Pooling the chain in his hand, he rubbed his thumb over the cross. “It’s been four years and I…” Shaking his head, he clenched his fist around the necklace. “I’ll think I’m doing fine, and then it hits me again and it’s like it hasn’t been years at all.” He brushed at his cheek with the back of his hand. "Sorry."

Dean nodded and studied the ground. A gust of wind blew and he fiddled with the buttons on his shirt, closed it against the cold.

“We understood each other so well,” Castiel said. “Sometimes felt like we were the same person.” He brought his cigarette to his mouth, then shook his head. “Not quite. He was a better person than I was. Never met anyone like him.” 

“Well, maybe you’ll find someone like him again one day.” Those weren’t the right words. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t even believe what he saying. Seemed Castiel had gotten luckier with Jimmy than most people did in a lifetime.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Castiel shook his head. “You’re the one who said don’t expect anything out of life. Nobody stays.”

“Shit, Cas.” Dean winced at the memory of their conversation after robbing the food wagon. “I didn’t know we were talkin about Jimmy then.”

“It’s alright.” Castiel shrugged. “You weren’t saying anything I didn’t know already.” Crossing his arms, he sniffed and wiped at his nose with his sleeve.

Inwardly cursing himself, Dean leaned on one of the porch posts. If when he’d met Castiel, someone had told him that before too long he’d find himself standing here, trying to console him… 

The porch creaked as Castiel leaned on the opposite post. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to live without him,” he admitted quietly.

“You’ll find a way.” Dean studied the splintered wood of the porch steps. “Seems you’re doin pretty well already.”

Castiel let out a small laugh. “You didn’t see me a few months ago. Before I met you… These past few weeks have probably been the least horrible in the past four years. Which is saying a lot, considering what these weeks have been like.”

Dean realized he could say nearly the same for himself; Castiel’s company was a surprising respite after so many long months of riding alone.

“Well,” he said, straightening off the porch post and clapping Castiel on the shoulder, “you’ll be even better after you’re rid of me.”

“Reckon so?” Castiel gave him a small smile, and Dean nodded, looked away. He started towards the door and, in his peripheral, saw Castiel open his fist to study his necklace again. Pausing, he watched Castiel hold the cross up so it glimmered in the moonlight. 

“I just miss him so much,” Castiel whispered, so low Dean almost missed it in the chirping of crickets. He didn’t know what he could say, what he could possibly offer, so he didn’t speak, just turned and went back inside, leaving Castiel standing there.

•◊•◊•◊•

Castiel left to buy supplies early the next morning after a quick meal Dean insisted on getting up for. He watched Castiel ride off, then went to the pump and filled a bucket to clean the dishes. His side ached as he pumped the fountain handle, but he ignored it because if he managed to do some chores, he wouldn’t feel entirely useless.

After cleaning the dishes and pots they’d let accumulate the few days they’d been staying in the cabin, he went to the stable to check on Dusty. She nickered as he stroked between her ears. 

“Miss me?” he asked. A worry was gnawing at him. If Castiel should run into Ishim… but Castiel was smart; he could take care of himself. What should really be worrying him was Castiel never coming back. He was sure Castiel wasn’t too keen on playing nurse, though Dean was trying his damndest not to be a burden.

Heading back to the cabin, he glanced at the woodpile and thought briefly of chopping wood, then decided against it. If Castiel hadn’t abandoned him already, he would most certainly turn Halo right back around if he rode into the yard to see Dean passed out by the woodpile. 

And then there was last night hanging over them. They hadn’t spoken this morning of their talk, but Dean imagined Castiel was feeling plenty embarrassed—'least, Dean would be if he was caught crying over a nightmare. Not that he faulted Castiel for it. Just didn’t know what to make of it. The Castiel he’d seen last night didn’t seem like the Castiel he knew. He’d been all too similar to the one in that photo with Jimmy—vulnerable, fond. Dean had assumed that Castiel didn’t exist anymore. 

Deciding to wash, he returned to the pump and filled the bucket. The water was cold enough to take his breath away when he ran a rag over his chest, but it was a relief to wipe away the grime and remaining blood. He even shaved best he could, using a small mirror he found in the cabin, relieved it was his left side that was injured so he still had the use of his right hand. 

It’d been a long time since he’d had such a serious injury. He had a three-inch scar on his right shoulder from the last time, years ago. He’d felt his skin being hacked away by a dull knife when his attacker—the irate husband of a woman Dean had gone to bed with—chased him down. The wound had gotten infected and for a bit Dean had worried he’d lose an arm over a lousy lay. Thankfully, it’d all healed up in the end. 

The sun was high in the sky by the time Dean finished shaving. He ate a meal, feeling listless. After spending so much time with Castiel lately, the cabin felt eerily quiet. But he knew he had better get used to solitary, quiet days again. Soon enough he’d be on his own again. Part of him dreaded the idea. He was never good at being alone with his thoughts for long periods of time. Why he spent most of his time in towns, in saloons and whorehouses. 

He wandered through the cabin, rummaging through drawers and shelves. The chest in the bedroom held moth-eaten blankets and a water-damaged Bible. Dean picked up the Bible and thumbed through the crinkled pages before tossing it back into the trunk. Maybe Castiel would be interested in it, what with Jimmy being religious and all. 

Dean’s ma had owned a Bible—he remembered seeing her read it at the kitchen table. She probably brought him to church when he was young, though he didn’t remember. He doubted his pa ever went, couldn’t imagine his more-often-drunk-than-not, foul-mouthed father tolerating a church service. But his ma was religious. Dean remembered her speaking of guardian angels, which seemed a frightening concept—beings looking down on him from Heaven, judging his actions. 

_Sorry ma,_ he thought, shutting the chest and sitting on the bed. He didn’t think he was winning over the favor of any guardian angels. Then again, he doubted she was either. He wasn’t sure what one had to do to secure a place in Heaven, but he was pretty sure abandoning your kids wasn’t going to help. 

Even though he didn’t really believe in God, that seemed a unique blasphemy, to think your mother was sentenced to hell. And he was sure she’d had plenty of reasons for leaving; he knew his pa wasn’t the easiest to get along with. Why she didn’t take him and Sam along, he didn’t know. But his pa said often enough he was a pain in the ass—Dean reckoned he’d been too much to handle from the beginning. 

Sam had once said he wanted to track their ma down. Dean had been adamantly against the idea—she’d left them, he wasn’t going to chase after her. Sam had dropped the idea without much of a fight. Dean didn’t think he was so keen on finding their ma either; he’d only suggested it after their pa died. Much as he and Dean fought, Dean couldn’t deny that Sam often meant well. 

Kicking off his boots and pulling off his shirt, Dean succumbed to the pain in his side and got into bed. He winced at the stretch in his side when he lay down, but it was preferable to standing and walking. Much as he didn’t want to admit it, moving around so much had exhausted him and, in no time at all, he fell asleep. 

It seemed he’d only closed his eyes for a few seconds, but when he woke, the sunlight from the window cast the room in a warmer light than earlier, the shadows long along the floor. He knew he should get up so that when Castiel returned he wouldn’t be found lazing the day away, but for once his ribs didn’t hurt and the stitches didn’t burn, so he lay in the quiet, enjoying the respite. 

A dream wavered in his mind like fog and the more he tried to grasp it, the more the fog dissipated. He had the sinking suspicion, though, that his dream had involved Lisa. Why was she invading his dreams, why now? Before recently, he hadn’t dreamt of her in months. But at one time, shortly after leaving Lawrence, he’d dreamt of her nearly every night, images and memories rising in his subconscious no matter which woman he slept next to. 

Absentmindedly, he reached down and palmed himself under the covers, warmed himself to thoughts of Lisa. But that didn’t quite do the trick, too many emotions intermingled with every memory. 

So he turned his mind to Castiel, of what they’d done, of what he wanted Castiel to do to him. If Lisa had ever guessed his attraction to men, he was sure she would’ve run fast in the opposite direction. Of all the ways he’d tried to shock her, show how ill-suited he was for her, he’d never told her, never even hinted at the nights he’d spent in a man’s company. But that secrecy had been ingrained in him at a young age, due to the zealous efforts of his pa, and he knew better than to risk telling the truth. That was part of the reason he’d traveled farther west, out to remote, backwoods towns where anything went. Where men like Castiel were willing to share their bed for the night, no questions asked, no strings attached. 

Well, not quite like Castiel. Dean was fairly certain he’d never met anyone like Castiel and never would again. For one, he’d never met anyone so goddamn stubborn, enough to rival himself, and so self-willed, frustratingly so. 

He almost felt guilty for having nagged Castiel until the stubborn bastard finally had sex with him—he hadn’t known then that Castiel was still mourning his old partner. Castiel had been through enough already; now he had to deal with Dean.

 _Almost_ felt guilty, that is. Castiel _had_ said these past weeks weren’t horrible. Maybe it had been good for him, to get out of his head. Or maybe Dean was thinking too much of himself. 

He hadn’t understood before why Castiel acted so hesitant in the beginning, why it’d taken him so long just to kiss Dean, just to look him in the eyes when fucking him. There was something so maddening about him that made Dean want more. Always more. Wanted him under his hands again, to learn his sighs and shifts— but those thoughts were venturing into dangerous territory. There wasn’t any point in getting close to anyone out here. It was only bad luck that he’d been stuck with Castiel for so long; soon as Ishim was dead, Castiel would be gone. As Dean wanted. 

He stroked himself harder, heartbeat quickening at the thought of Castiel lying next to him in the dark, suddenly pushing him onto his stomach and pinning him down as he pushed into him, the pain that made him gasp and clutch at the sheets, muffle his groans in his pillow. 

_Fucking gunshot wound,_ he thought. Who knew how long it’d be before a move like that didn’t open all the stitches Castiel had stitched into him. Though Dean was almost willing to risk it at the pull in his stomach at the thought. 

In his haste to get off, he nearly missed the creak of the front door. At the low sound, his eyes shot open and he yanked his hand away from himself.

"I'm back," Castiel called from the kitchen. 

“Fuck,” Dean swore under his breath and tried to sit up as the sound of footsteps was replaced by Castiel appearing in the doorway. 

“What are you doing?” he asked and Dean answered, too quickly, 

“Nothin, I just feel asleep, didn’t hear you gettin back.” Castiel might not have suspected anything originally, but Dean knew his hasty reply and burning face was more than enough to raise Castiel’s suspicions. Sure enough, Castiel tilted his head a little, studying Dean as he leaned on the doorframe. 

Dean kept a hand pressed to his dick, trying to push it down. “You run into any trouble?” he asked, trying to act casual. 

Castiel shook his head. “Nope. Got everything on our list. Plenty of whiskey.” His eyes trailed to where Dean’s hand disappeared under the covers. “You do anything besides lay in bed all day?” 

“Yeah, I did some chores.” 

There was glint in Castiel’s eyes that Dean recognized. Straightening off the doorframe, he walked into the room, and Dean’s heart pounded. “You weren't bored here all by yourself?” 

_Fuck it,_ Dean thought. “And so what if I was?” he demanded. 

Castiel shrugged. “I thought this hurt too much to do anything.” Stopping by the bed, he slid his fingers over the bandage wrapped around Dean’s chest. 

“Somethin else hurtin enough to warrant attention.” 

Castiel laughed. “Well,” he motioned to Dean, “don’t stop on my account.”

“You gonna just stand there and watch?” He said it mockingly, hoping to disguise the way his heart was racing.

“No…” Castiel fingered the end of the blanket, pulling it back slightly. “Just figured, you seem to be doing all fine by yourself—”

“Fuck you.” 

Grinning, Castiel pulled the blanket aside. Dean stiffened at the sudden exposure and the way Castiel’s eyes dwelt on his cock before running up to his eyes. “Alright, come on, move over.” He helped Dean shift so his legs hung over the side of the bed. “Lay down,” he said, pushing back on Dean’s shoulders. “You’re putting too much pressure on the stitches.”

Dean rolled his eyes but did so. He was relieved to be in familiar territory now with Castiel. Assertive, pushy, annoying—that was more like the Castiel he knew. 

His hands on Dean’s thighs, Castiel knelt on the floor. He pulled Dean’s pants and drawers down to his ankles and Dean kicked them off, spreading his legs to frame Castiel’s body. His skin heated as Castiel ran his tongue over his lower stomach and nipped at his hips, teeth grazing his skin. Then Castiel thrust his tongue into Dean’s navel and Dean let out a quiet sound, grabbing at Castiel’s hair, his shoulders. His cock brushed against Castiel’s chin and his breath hitched in his throat.

“I thought you were still mad at me,” Castiel said, pulling away, and Dean lifted his head to see the teasing glint in Castiel's eyes as he slid his hands over Dean’s thighs, digging his thumbs into his skin.

“I am,” Dean said, his lower back rising involuntarily at the shiver down his spine. “That’s why I’m lettin you make it up to me.” He tried to refrain his hips from jerking up when, blue eyes locked on his, Castiel ran his tongue up Dean’s length and flicked his tongue over the head of Dean’s cock, so lightly, Dean hardly felt it, though his body reacted accordingly, a shudder running through him. 

Castiel laughed low, then he ducked his head and took Dean in his mouth. At the warm sensation, Dean dropped his head back with a groan. Castiel took him deeper and his hips jerked up, a grunt of pain escaping him at the twinge of pain in his ribs.

Castiel pulled off him. “Are you alri—” he started, and Dean grabbed the back of his head, pushed him back down.

“Don’t stop.”

“I swear, if I have to stitch you back up again after this…” Castiel muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched in a smile before he went down on Dean again. 

Shutting his eyes, Dean lost himself in the pulses of pleasure, the heat that flooded him as Castiel sucked him, then the shudders as Castiel slowed his pace, one hand lightly pumping the base of his cock or groping his balls.

Castiel’s own stifled moans brought Dean back to the present and he opened his eyes to see Castiel’s arm move as he stroked himself. “Fuck, Cas,” Dean moaned, pushing his head back on the bed. 

He was agonizingly close, Castiel keeping him on edge, and he fought the urge to beg Castiel to finish him off already. Castiel ran his tongue over the head of his cock again and a sigh escaped him. To cover it up, he said, “Hurry it up.”

Which was a mistake, because Castiel pulled off him completely, raising his head to look at him, a smile playing at his wet mouth. “But I like seeing you this way.” Dean felt his cock jerk and he kicked Castiel lightly. “Impatient,” Castiel mocked, but he took Dean in his mouth again. 

Dean groaned, tugging at Castiel’s hair harder than he needed to. “Come on, Cas, deeper,” he panted, ignoring the pain in his side as he thrust up into Castiel’s mouth. 

Castiel grunted. He slid his hand up Dean’s thigh to grip his hip. Dean felt his cock hit the back of Castiel’s throat and he swore at the jolt of pleasure, then Castiel swallowed and the ceiling tipped.

“Fuck, Cas, shit!” He dug his fingers into Castiel’s shoulder as his body tensed, his eyes involuntarily clenching shut as he came. Desperate sounds poured out of him, intermingled with Castiel’s own moans, drowned in the rushing of blood in his ears and pleasure racking his body.

When his orgasm slowly subsided and he came back to his senses, Castiel had pulled off him and knelt back on his heels. “Shit,” Dean managed, draping one arm over his face. He tried to catch his breath. His legs trembled and his chest felt like it was on fire, but he found himself grinning. “Goddammit.”

Feeling Castiel pull his hand from his hip, he lifted his arm up, opening his eyes to see Castiel wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist, his other hand pumping his cock. 

“No,” Dean said, trying to sit up, “Let me.” 

Castiel’s eyes flitted to his, then he motioned for Dean to lay back and got up on the bed, straddling Dean’s hips. “This alright?” he asked.

Dean nodded and pushed the hem of Castiel’s shirt aside to slide his thumb over the slit of Castiel’s cock, slicking his fingers. Grinning at the small sigh Castiel let out, he began stroking him with a light touch. 

Castiel shifted to brace himself on the bed, hands on either side of Dean. His legs trembled, his back arching a little, and Dean exploited it, pumping Castiel harder to see him grip the bed sheets. With his other hand, he grabbed Castiel’s neck and pulled him down to kiss him. 

Castiel moaned into their kiss and Dean’s cock twitched despite his exhaustion at the taste of himself on Castiel’s tongue. Sliding his hand down from Castiel’s neck, he gripped Castiel’s hip, his ass, his thigh, and Castiel shifted into his touch. In doing so, his knee bumped Dean’s wounded side, and at the jarring pain, Dean swore, breaking their kiss.

“Sorry—no, Dean, come on,” Castiel complained as Dean pulled his hand away from his cock. 

“First you get me shot, now you beat me up while I’m doin you a favor,” Dean half-joked, grabbing Castiel’s wrist before he could stroke himself, loving the way Castiel’s pupils were blown wide. 

Wrenching his hand from Dean’s, Castiel started pumping himself. “You’re not doing me any damn fav—fuck!” He inhaled sharply at Dean pressing his thumb under the head of his cock, successfully shutting him up. Letting go of his cock, he pressed his hand to the bed, shuddering as Dean recommenced stroking him. 

“You’re lucky I’m feelin generous today,” Dean teased, stroking him harder, trying to get him to his edge.

Groaning, Castiel dropped his forehead to Dean’s shoulder. He rocked forward into Dean’s hand, soft, half-choked moans falling out of his mouth. Dean shivered despite the heat he felt radiating off of Castiel’s skin, warming his own. He hadn’t wanted to admit to himself how much he’d missed this, how much he’d gotten used to these sounds, these sensations during their time in Evanston.

He bit and sucked the warm, sweat-dampened skin of Castiel’s neck that he could reach, and then, with a stuttering gasp, Castiel came over his fist, over his stomach. 

Dean pumped him until Castiel went soft and pulled away from his touch. Mindful of Dean’s injured side, he sat back on his heels, breathing hard. Keeping eye contact, Dean swiped his finger through Castiel’s mess on his stomach and sucked his finger. 

“Fuck,” Castiel groaned and slapped Dean’s face lightly as he got off him and fell back on the bed, legs hanging over the side next to Dean's. Dean grinned, feeling a small satisfaction from the fact that he’d reduced the sullen, headstrong sonuvabitch to a moaning mess. 

Castiel ran his hands through his hair, then dropped them heavily to the bed. Dean stared at the way Castiel’s bare chest rose and fell, then realized Castiel was watching him, a small smile playing at his mouth.

“What?” Dean asked. In reply, Castiel propped himself up on one elbow and kissed him. Dean raised his hand to Castiel’s face, to the rough stubble on his jaw, and Castiel made a soft sound in the back of his throat that made Dean’s chest tighten. 

Breaking their kiss, he let go of Castiel. “Feel better now?” Castiel asked, laying back. He began unbuttoning his shirt and glanced at Dean. “Still mad at me?”

Dean scrubbed his hand over his face. “I’m not lettin you off that easy.” His skin cooling, pulse returning to normal, his wound registered as a low discomfort. 

“No, ‘course not,” Castiel said sarcastically. Shifting, he studied Dean, and Dean’s face warmed under the scrutiny. He looked away, eyes drawn to the silver chain hanging around Castiel’s neck, to a loose thread precariously holding a button onto his shirt. 

At the light touch of a finger on his cheek, he met Castiel’s eyes again. “I’m glad you didn’t die anyway, though,” Castiel said, which Dean supposed was a compliment. “I don’t mind having you around.” His eyes were soft, their lids heavy as he ran his finger down Dean’s neck. “For a moment, when you passed out, I thought… I thought you might actually be a goner.” 

“God, you’re worse like this than when you’re drunk,” Dean said. But he remembered lying in the alley, his chest on fire, and Castiel yelling his name, grabbing his wrist to find his pulse. 

Tearing his eyes away from Castiel, he grabbed the corner of a blanket to wipe his stomach. “I’m sure you were very concerned about my wellbein. Bet you were upset I didn’t catch the bullet through my heart.” 

“Just, stop, stop talking.” A tone Dean hadn't heard Castiel use before last night, something quiet and mournful. He pulled his hand away from Dean’s face. 

“Don’t pretend it’s not true,” Dean muttered. He buttoned his pants and pushed himself up to sit, his side protesting the movement as he’d expected. “Fuck, I need a drink.” 

Castiel didn’t answer. Not looking at Dean, he sat up to take off his shirt and wipe at his cock with it, then tuck himself back into his pants.

Reaching over, Dean pushed Castiel’s head to the side. “So moody.” 

Castiel knocked his hand away. “So fucking annoying.”

“You weren’t sayin that a few minutes ago,” Dean goaded. He moved away before Castiel could hit him and stood, a little shakily. As he turned away, he caught Castiel biting back a smile. He didn’t know when it had happened, he and Castiel falling into too easy familiarity. He missed their volatile, fickle relationship when they first met. When people grew too close, they expected too much.

He headed into the kitchen. He really needed that drink.


	11. None of Your Concern

Dean walked towards the saloon, then hesitated and turned on his heel, nearly bumping into Castiel. “Nope, I’m not doin this.”

“Man up and go in there, for fuck’s sake. This was your idea.”

Dean turned back around to face the saloon doors. “Yeah, and I’m regrettin it already.” He’d risen early that morning and was gathering his bags when Castiel awoke. When he’d announced that they were heading to Piedmont, Castiel didn’t even protest. He just studied Dean in that quiet way of his, then shrugged and got out of bed. 

“This ain’t smart,” Dean said now. “I don’t know what I was thinkin.”

Putting his hands on Dean's shoulders, Castiel pushed him towards the saloon. Dean bristled and knocked Castiel’s hands off, then regretted it at the sharp pull in his side. “Go in here and have it out, or whatever,” Castiel said. “I’ll see if anyone has heard any news of Ishim.”

“Fuck me,” Dean muttered, but he headed inside. Though his ribs were hurting something fierce from the ride into town, he’d woken up knowing he couldn’t spend another day roaming around the cabin when Castiel had made it damn near impossible to stay mad at him. Even meeting up with Sam was better than that torture.

Or so it’d seemed that morning. Eyes adjusting to the dim interior, he scanned the familiar barroom. Smaller than he remembered from the times his father dragged him and Sam here when they were young. He remembered sitting at the tables, his legs dangling off the chairs. Talking to the painted ladies who’d come in, the ones Sam acted so timid around. They’d laugh and ask Dean’s pa why he brought kids to the saloon, and Dean would speak up, say he wasn’t so young. Falling asleep at a table in the back as his pa played poker into the night. Those were some of the best memories he could conjure up of his pa. 

“Dean!”

His head snapped to the right and he spotted Sam already sitting at a table. So, Sam had finally been able to grow a beard. Still refusing to get a haircut, though, it seemed. 

Plastering on a nonchalant grin, Dean headed to the table. “Sammy! Long time no see.” 

Sam stood and seemed to want to start forward, but stayed put by his chair. Rapping his knuckles lightly on the table, he said, “I’m glad to see you. I was afraid you wouldn’t show.”

Dean waved his hand. “Yeah, well, I’m here now, ain’t I?” He looked Sam up and down. He looked older than Dean remembered, definitely more distinguished. That was due to his clothes—a tailored brown suit jacket and pressed pants which he knew Sam would’ve never been able to afford before. Shoes that looked like they’d never touched dirt a day in their life. “Well, look at you. Heard your business was doin well. You sure look like some big city lawyer.” 

“Oh, yes, well, um, thanks.” Sam looked down at his clothes, then back at Dean and the implicit comparison made Dean’s face burn. 

He glanced back at the bar and Sam offered quickly, “Let me buy you a drink.”

Dean dug into his vest pocket for money. “I can pay for my own goddamn drink.” 

Sam sighed. “Why do you have to be so stubborn? I’m only trying to be nice.” 

“Well quit it.” 

Grabbing their drinks, they sat back down. Dean leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Sam drank from his glass and Dean noticed a gold watch chain running out of his vest pocket. So, Sam was _rich_ rich. He didn’t know why he found that so infuriating.

“What’re you doin in these parts?” he asked. “Why aren’t you in Stanford?”

Sam set his glass down and clasped his hands on the table. “I had some business in Green River, so I thought I’d make a trip out of it and visit friends in Kansas first. I would’ve written directly to you to inform you of where I was, but I don’t know where you’re living nowadays.” 

That was an opportunity to share what he’d been doing in their year and a half apart, but Dean didn’t bite. He drank from his glass, looking around the saloon. He wondered if there was still a bullet hole on the back wall from the time their pa got in an altercation during a card game.

“I should have guessed you would pick this place to meet,” Sam said, also looking around.

Dean caught the tone of displeasure in his voice. “What, Sammy, you used to more finer establishments down in Stanford?”

“No, I just don’t have the best of memories associated with this place.” 

“Always were so stuck up,” Dean muttered. He glanced at Sam, but Sam didn’t take the bait. 

Instead, shifting in his chair, Sam seemed to fight for words. He rotated his glass on the table. “God, Dean, you know, I’ve been putting ads in the papers for weeks now. I was starting to worry—”

“Needn’t have worried. You know I don’t ever touch the paper.”

“You might’ve written.”

Dean snorted. “Since when have I ever written a fuckin letter?”

“Just a line, just an ‘I’m not dead.’ I would’ve appreciated that much, at least.”

“Didn’t know you cared so much.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged. “Don’t say that.”

Dean studied the liquid in his glass, swirled it around. Now he’d done it. Why couldn’t he keep his damn mouth shut, have a civil conversation with Sam for once?”

“I had hoped that…” Sam frowned at his glass. “I don’t know, maybe that after all this time, things might be different between us.” 

“Oh, they’re different.” He’d started this, may as well commit to it. He gestured to Sam, trying to encompass his brother’s clothing, his wealth. “Clearly.”

Sam let out a frustrated huff. “You know what I mean. I know we didn’t part ways in the best of circumstances, and I'm sorry—” 

“You mean, when you left,” Dean said pointedly. “For the second time.” 

“I told you that you were welcome to join me—” 

“Cut the bullshit, Sammy—”

“Stop calling me Sammy,” Sam snapped. They stared each other down until Dean leaned back in his chair.

“Fine, _Samuel_ ,” he said, stressing his full name. “Is that what you’re goin by nowadays? Tryin to sound more learned? We both know you didn’t really want me comin along to Stanford. You didn’t want your screw-up brother in town, tarnishin your reputation and plans to become part of high society.” 

Sam shook his head, pressing his mouth into a thin line, and Dean glanced at the doors to outside, grateful Castiel hadn’t come inside with him. He didn’t need to air his dirty laundry in front of him, though he knew Castiel was more curious about Sam than he was letting on. It’d been a mistake coming here; he didn’t know what he’d expected.

“Listen,” he said, looking back at Sam. “You went your way and I went mine. Let’s leave it that way, alright? I’m doin just fine and you seem to be more than well-off, so let’s not do the whole, ‘you’re my brother’ talk you’re so fond of.” 

“Dean, I only want to make sure that you’re alright—”

“See? That’s what I’m talkin about! I’m fine!”

“Are you?” Sam crossed his arms and fixed him with a steady gaze. “What have you been doing since I left?”

Dean shrugged. “Same as always. Goin from town to town, makin do.”

“Mhm. Meaning, drinking and gambling your life away.”

“What’s it to you? You got one way of livin and I got another.” He leaned closer. “And don’t act like you’re above all that. Your friends in Stanford, they know how you grew up? Petty crime, gambling? You weren’t shit back then and you ain’t shit now, though you think you are.” Too late, he realized he was repeating himself from their last conversation, repeating his father’s words when Sam left for college.

Sam’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t respond. The saloon doors creaked open and Dean looked up to see Castiel walk inside. For once, the sight of the nosy fucker was a relief.

Downing his drink, he set the glass hard on the table and stood. “Go back to Stanford,” he told Sam. “You belong there anyway. You can stop pretendin to care about me.” 

“Dean, wait,” Sam protested, but Dean ignored him and walked away. 

Castiel stood near the doorway, turning his hat in his hands. “Let’s get out of here,” Dean said to Castiel’s curious look. He pushed through the doors, asking, as he walked to their horses, “Hear anythin about Ishim?”

Castiel caught up to him. “Yeah, matter of fact, he passed through here two days ago. Him and three others.”

Dean untied Dusty from the hitching post. “Well, they can’t have gotten far. Least now we’re the ones chasin them.”

“There’s someone after you?” 

Dean swore under his breath and turned around to see Sam standing outside the saloon, the doors swinging shut behind him. Sam glanced at Castiel, then at Dean. “Dean, what’s going on?”

“Ain’t none of your concern.” Dean swung up into his saddle, sucking in his breath sharply as his ribs protested.

“Are you hurt?” Sam’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

“None of your concern,” Dean repeated, biting off each word. 

Sam stepped forward. “If someone’s after you, I can tell a marshal, get a posse together—”

“You ain’t gettin involved in this! This has nothin to do with you! Fuck off!”

Stopping short, Sam glared at him. “Fine,” he finally said, setting his jaw. “I should have known what to expect, asking to meet up with you. You haven’t changed one bit since I saw you last.”

“A ‘goddamn mess,’ I believe your last words were.” And with that, he spurred Dusty and rode away. Castiel followed without a word. At the end of the street, a glance over his shoulder showed Sam still standing in the street.

“Guessing that wasn’t some happy family reunion,” Castiel said as Dean turned back in his saddle.

“Shuddup. Where’re we headed?”

“Towards the east. That’s the direction Ishim and his buddies headed.”

Dean nodded absentmindedly, still fuming at the way Sam tried to involve himself in his business. Why should Sam get a say in how he lived his life? Why couldn’t he just leave him alone?

“What’d Sam say?” Castiel ventured. 

“Same shit he always says. Doesn’t like the way I’m livin my life.” Dean pulled his hat brim lower to shield against the sun’s rays.

“Still don’t understand why you’re slumming it over here when you’ve got a rich brother.”

“You ain’t got any siblings, you wouldn’t understand.” Dean wrapped his reins around his fist. “Me and Sammy haven’t seen eye to eye in a long time. Doubt we ever will.”

•◊•◊•◊•

They rode until the sky turned orange, then made camp in a brief patch of woods. Dean dumped food out of their packs as Castiel collected sticks for a fire. 

“How come Ishim’s travelin with three others?” Dean asked, opening a packet of biscuits. “I thought we killed the rest of the Rogues.” 

“Probably paid some people to help track us down.” Castiel stomped on a long branch to break it in half.

“Lot of trouble to go through," Dean started, then the sound of horse hooves caught his attention. 

Snatching up his six shooter, he pushed himself to his feet. Castiel dropped the armful of wood he’d gathered and brought his hand to his gun belt.

“Who goes there?” Dean yelled, peering into the dusky woods. A horse and its rider appeared from behind a few trees and he aimed at the intruder. 

“Don’t shoot!” the rider called in a too familiar voice. _Don't tell me..._ Dean thought. The rider drew closer, and Dean caught his face out from under the shadow of his hat.

“For fuck’s sake—” Lowering his gun, he motioned for Castiel to do the same.

The rider—Sam—ducked under a branch and reined his horse in to a stop next to Dusty and Halo. “It’s just me,” he announced.

“What the fuck are you doin here?” Dean demanded. 

Sam swung off his horse. “Sounded like you were in trouble. I want to help.”

“Take a hint, Sammy! I don’t need your damn help!”

“Well, you’re getting it anyway.” Sam began tying his horse to the tree where Dusty and Halo stood and Dean shook his head.

“No, no, I didn’t say you could stay.” He looked to Castiel for help and Castiel lifted his hands.

“I don’t want to get involved.” He crouched to pick up the tinder he’d dropped. “Up to you.”

Lot of help Castiel was. Dean looked back at Sam, who stood by his horse, watching him and Castiel. “I thought you had business in these parts.”

Sam shrugged. “I took care of everything I needed to. I was gonna head back to Stanford tomorrow, but I can wait a few more days. I sent a telegram to my assistant, told her to take care of things.”

Dean swore under his breath. Sam always was a stubborn sonuvabitch. “Alright, you wanna help?” He sat back down and tossed his gun to the side. “There’s an outlaw after us—well, more so after him.” He pointed to Castiel. “We’re tryin to kill the bastard before he kills us. You wanna be a part of that?”

Sam looked at Castiel. “Does he deserve to be killed?”

Castiel nodded. “He does. He’s been trying to kill me for some time. And one of his gang shot Dean and nearly killed him.”

Sam turned to Dean, eyes wide. “Wasn’t _that_ bad,” Dean said before Sam could start in on him. “But, yeah, he has this comin.”

Sam studied him, then Castiel. Dean knew he must have a hundred more questions, but he only nodded. “Alright, I’m in.”

“Wonderful,” Dean muttered.

After grabbing his saddlebags and depositing them on the ground, Sam sat down next to Dean. Castiel came over with the wood he’d gathered. “Castiel,” he said, wiping his hand on his jeans before extending it to Sam.

“Sam.” Sam shook his hand. “Dean’s brother.”

“Oh, I know. Dean’s said plenty about you.”

“Alright, shut up,” Dean cut in. Castiel gave him a sly smile as he arranged the wood for a fire and Dean glared at him. 

Turning his attention back to Sam, he asked, “What happens when your Stanford buddies find out you went after someone and helped kill him?”

“If he’s an outlaw, then the law already wants him dead.” Sam took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Besides, no one’s going to find out. You’re not going to tell anyone.” 

“Guess not,” Dean said ruefully. “Let’s be clear, though. I don’t need your help. Me and Cas could handle this just fine on our own.”

“Alright. Wish you were just as skilled at staying out of trouble.” Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed his knife to open a can of beans. “When did you two start riding together?” Sam asked, looking at Castiel. 

“Only ‘round three weeks ago,” Dean answered for him, giving Castiel a warning look. Last thing he needed was Sam getting any ideas about the nature of his and Castiel’s relationship. “We’ll be partin ways soon enough.”

“Why?” 

“Killing Ishim is our last business to attend to before we go our separate ways,” Castiel answered, and Dean nodded, happy to see he and Castiel were on the same page. 

“What business did you have before Ishim?” Sam asked slowly. 

“None of your goddamn business,” Dean said, and Castiel ducked his head with a smile. So, now he was turning into Castiel. Terrific. 

Sam didn’t look especially satisfied with Dean’s answer, but he didn’t press the issue. Castiel raked some coals and Dean set his pot on them. It was only now with a third party present that he recognized the rhythms he and Castiel had fallen into over the past three weeks together. Castiel gathered wood, he started a fire, Castiel took care of the horses, and he cooked supper. The thought made him uncomfortable, thinking Sam might read them as closer than they were, as pals when they were just barely not enemies. 

And he knew how the rest of the night would’ve normally played out. A quiet supper, then laying out their bedrolls, Castiel stoking the fire, pretending—Dean suspected—not to notice as Dean grew antsier, wondering what mood Castiel was in tonight. Well, he wouldn’t have to wonder tonight, nor any night Sam was around. Just his luck Sam would intrude where he wasn’t wanted and effectively cockblock him and Castiel. 

“So, why is this outlaw after you two?” Sam asked as Dean shut the lid on the coffee pot. “Or do I want to know?” 

Dean looked pointedly at Castiel. He was curious to know what story Castiel would come up with. To his surprise, Castel told the truth.

Clasping his hands over his knees, he answered simply, “I rode with Ishim and his gang for a time. Pissed them off and they want revenge.” 

Sam’s eyes had widened. “You were one of them?”

“Hold on, Sammy,” Dean interrupted, knowing the way Sam’s mind was turning. “Cas ain’t some wanted outlaw you’re gonna turn in to the law.”

“I wasn’t, that’s not what I meant, it’s just…” He looked at Castiel. “You were a member of a gang of outlaws. That alone is reason enough to get you time in jail or a death sentence. No offense,” he added. 

Castiel shrugged. “Can’t prove anything.” 

“So why are you traveling with my brother then?”

Castiel grinned. “You really don’t know Dean, do you? You think it’s so out of character that your brother would partner with a thief?” 

“Shut the fuck up, Cas,” Dean snapped. 

“What the hell is he talking about?” Sam asked, turning on Dean.

“You’re gonna ride with us, you don’t get to ask questions. Alright? So shut your trap.” He pointed at Castiel. “You too, you sonuvabitch. Fuck.” 

Castiel kept grinning, and Dean angrily and noisily took the coffee pot off the coals. Castiel couldn’t just be satisfied getting under his skin; he had to rile Sam up against him too. 

“Castiel Milton,” Castiel said, and Dean and Sam glanced at him. He was looking at Sam. “That’s my name. ‘Case you’re wondering.” 

“There,” Dean said to Sam. “You seen any wanted posters for him anywhere? You gonna do your lawful duty and turn him in?” 

Sam only looked stonily at Castiel and didn’t reply. 

“You couldn’t, even if you did try.” Castiel said it casually enough, but with a dangerous look in his eyes Dean knew Sam would take as warning. 

•◊•◊•◊•

“Psst, Dean, wake up.” 

Dean opened his eyes and felt a light kick to his, thankfully, unwounded side. “What the fuck?” he mumbled, his eyes focusing on Sam standing over him. 

“Shh.” Sam looked over his shoulder at where Castiel slept. “Come on, I want to talk to you.” 

Dean grumbled as he sat up, knowing there wasn’t any point in protesting because Sam wasn’t going to let him sleep. “What?” he demanded, pushing back his blanket and shivering at the chill. 

“Over here.” Sam walked away from the campfire. “So he doesn’t wake up.” 

Dean glanced at Castiel, who lay nearly completely hidden under his blanket, facing away from the smoldering fire so that his face fell in shadow. At the sight, some irrational, inexplicable desire rose in him to slide under the blanket, lie in Castiel’s warmth. 

Shaking his head, he followed Sam past their small camp into the trees. “Don’t worry,” he said, seeing Sam look back at their bedrolls and packs. “Cas tried to steal from me once, he ain't gonna do it again. He ain’t gonna take your shit and run.” 

Sam didn’t seem very convinced, but he also didn’t ask Dean to elaborate. When they were a few yards from camp, Dean turned on him. “Alright, what? Have it out.” 

Sam didn’t lose any time. “You knew this Castiel was an outlaw, was part of a gang, and you started riding with him?” 

_And a whole lot more,_ Dean thought. Aloud, he said, “If you're gonna start somethin, you better leave. I don’t have to explain myself to you.” 

“I’m just worried, alright? I mean, you’ve done questionable things in the past, but now, getting involved with this thief—” 

“It ain’t like that. You’re givin him too much credit. Besides, you think the men pa always hung around with were honest?” 

“Are you really going to use pa as an example of how to live your life?” 

“Don’t start with that shit. Don’t you start talkin about him like that again.” 

Sam lifted his hands. “Fine, fine.” 

Dean realized he’d clenched his hands into fists. He crossed his arms instead and watched Sam run a hand through his hair, avoiding his eyes as he seemed to struggle for words. Suddenly nervous at what he'd say, Dean waited.

“You know,” Sam finally said, “I miss pa too. His death was a hard thing to take.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Well, one of us had to hold it together! While you were going to pieces, I was the one arranging for pa to be shipped back to Lawrence, organizing the funeral. Had to do all that _and_ ensure you didn’t go and get yourself killed too.” 

Dean looked away, shaking his head. The time around his father’s death was a blurry memory and it wasn’t something he wanted to remember anyway. He knew he’d lost his head. He’d never wondered how it had affected Sam. 

Sam gestured to him. “You can’t blame me for hoping that you got your life together after I left.” 

Stowing away the new revelations, Dean fell back on defensiveness. “You don’t give a rat’s ass about me, I ain’t none of your concern.” 

“Stop saying that! Of course you’re my concern! You’re my brother!” Dean huffed, but Sam continued, throwing out his hands, “Why the fuck do you think I’m here, Dean? You think I enjoy seeing you ruin your life? You think I wanna hear more about the shit you’re gettin into? I’m tryin to make sure the only family I got left stays alive!” 

Dean stared at him. Sam’s chest rose and fell as he glared at Dean. So, Sam lost the haughty, educated way of speaking when he got angry enough. Dean ducked his head and studied the dirt. That Sam cared about family—now there was a surprise. 

“Now, what’s this business you and Castiel have together?” Sam asked, more steadily now.

“You ain’t gonna like it.” 

Sam snorted. “I figured.” 

Raising his head, Dean looked back towards their camp. He could catch the faintest glimpse of the fading firelight where Castiel slept. “We’ve… helped each other out with a few jobs.” Sam only stared at him. “Robberies.”

“Jesus, Dean—”

“It’s over now. Soon as we kill Ishim, we’re splittin up.” Dean met Sam’s eyes. 

“Dean, if you need money—” 

“Fuck off.” Dean made to walk away and Sam grabbed his arm.

“Hold on, just, wait a moment.” He let go of him. “What about Castiel? I mean, how can you trust him? How do you know he is who he says he is?” 

“What the fuck are you talkin about?” No, he wasn’t sure he could trust Castiel, but he wasn’t going to admit that to Sam. “You’re reachin, Sammy. Cas and I have an agreement, he’ll stick to it.” He started walking away again. Sam wasn’t ever going to understand, not that Dean thought he could explain. 

“Alright, then what if you get caught?” Sam called after him. “I’m sure you’ve caught the interest of plenty of lawmen. Have you given any thought to the consequences of stealing?” 

“You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?” Dean shot back over his shoulder. “I’ll let you know if I ever need your services.” 

Not waiting for Sam’s reaction, he walked back to camp and dropped down on his bedroll. Sam was worse than having his pa around. At least his pa left him alone sometimes, gave him up as a lost cause. Sam would never stop nagging him.

He rummaged through his saddlebags and found his flask. As he unscrewed the top, Sam stomped back. Dean didn’t look at him as he took a long pull of whiskey. Let Sam bitch all he wanted; he’d voided his chance at whatever familial connection he wanted when he first left Dean and their pa to go East. Give him a college degree and he thought he had the right to dictate how Dean lived his life, how even Castiel did. Which was a whole other problem—if Dean barely got along with Castiel on a good day, of course _Sam_ wouldn’t be too keen on him. Sam couldn’t just gripe about Dean—he had to cause problems with other people Dean saw fit to have around. Nothing Dean ever did would be good enough.


	12. Ain’t No Glory in the West

_What's a boy to do?_

_Hit the road with a dollar or two_

_Haunted by what he knows he can't do_

_Gets it off his chest_

_'Cause there ain't no glory in the west_

_No Glory in the West - Orville Peck_

•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•

Dean half hoped Sam would pack up and leave before morning, but when he woke, Sam was still there, stoking the fire back to life. After a quiet breakfast, they packed up camp to continue heading east after Ishim.

As Dean tied his bedroll behind his saddle, Castiel walked over to him. “You and Sam have a nice chat last night?” he asked. 

“You were eavesdroppin?” Dean looked over his shoulder at where Sam was kicking dirt over the fire’s ashes. 

“No.” Castiel untied Halo from the tree and swung up into his saddle. “But I did hear you two goin off to talk. What’d the rich lawyer have to say?” 

“More of the same.” Dean looked up at Castiel. “I, uh, told him ‘bout the robberies. No details, don’t worry,” he added when Castiel started to protest. 

“You better know what you’re doing, Dean Winchester." Castiel glared at him. "I’m not letting your brother get involved with our business.” 

“Yeah, I know.” He mounted Dusty, hesitating before asking, “You ain’t lyin about anythin else, are you? Nothin else you’ve conveniently neglected to mention about yourself?” 

Castiel’s face darkened. “I haven’t lied to you.” Dean raised an eyebrow and Castiel huffed. “’Sides about Ishim being after me—which, I didn’t lie, I just didn’t tell you everything. There’s a difference.” 

“Whatever you wanna tell yourself,” Dean muttered. 

“But what, now Sam’s raising doubts in your head? I thought you could think for yourself. You're the one who wanted to go after Ishim, you can’t back out now.” 

“I ain’t backin out,” Dean protested. “Just makin sure you are who you say you are.” 

He held Castiel’s gaze until Castiel shrugged. “I’m not leading you on or lying to you. Castiel Milton’s my real name. I was born 1861 in Indiana. Left home because there wasn’t anything for me there. Worked different, honest, jobs at a number of places until Jimmy passed, then drifted for a year and a half until I joined Ishim’s gang. I’m sure some sheriff somewhere has it out for me, but I didn’t spread my name around enough to leave an impression. So, you don’t have to worry about getting caught in the crossfire again over one of my mistakes. Satisfied?” 

A little stunned by the flood of information Castiel had shared, Dean nodded. Sam grabbed his saddlebags and headed over to them. 

“Good.” Castiel started riding off and Dean spurred Dusty to follow.

“I _can_ think for myself,” he said, catching up. “I ain’t quittin because Sam’s got money now and thinks he’s better than the both of us.” 

Castiel studied him, then nodded. “Alright then.”

“What did you say about me?” Sam called after them, mounting his horse.

“Nothin,” Dean said over his shoulder. “Let’s go.” 

•◊•◊•◊•

“Well, no sign of him yet,” Dean said as they rode down the main street of the next decrepit town they reached. He swiveled his head, trying to look in all directions, worried he’d spot Ishim too late to stop a bullet to the back. 

Castiel swore under his breath. “There’s nobody in this town. They must still be ahead.”

“Let’s stop and ask someone,” Sam suggested.

“Barkeep might know something,” Dean said. “Could use a drink anyway.” He caught Sam rolling his eyes as he turned Dusty to the saloon where only one other horse stood at the hitching post. 

Castiel checked the barrel of his gun when he dismounted and Dean did the same, glancing at Sam as he did so. “When’s the last time you had to defend yourself with a gun?” 

“Don’t worry about me,” Sam said, walking to the saloon doors. “I doubt I can forget how to shoot after all the practice pa drilled into us.” 

“That’s why you’re such a good shot?” Castiel asked Dean as they walked inside the saloon. “Your pa taught you?” 

Dean looked askance at him, trying to see the insult he must be hiding behind what seemed to be a compliment. “Yeah? And? What do you care?” 

Castiel was scanning the room and Dean remembered they were on the lookout for Ishim. He quickly looked around, but saw only two other men in the saloon, none of them familiar. 

Castiel looked back at him. “Just wondering who I should blame for the scar I’m gonna have on my leg. Reckoned you weren’t born a good shot, though you always act like it.” 

Dean snorted and Sam looked back at them. Dean worried a moment at what Sam might be thinking, but Sam only said, “Anyone we have to worry about in here?” 

Castiel shook his head and walked to the bar. “’Scuse me,” he said to the bartender. “Has an Ishim Jones been in here recently?” 

The bartender eyed him. “You takin up space in here just to ask questions?” 

“No, no, we’re here to drink too.” Pushing aside a newspaper, Dean leaned on the bar next to Castiel and put down a few coins. “Two whiskeys.” He gestured to Castiel. “He’s a teetotaler. Be glad he ain’t picketin your saloon right now.” 

Castiel gave him a dirty look and the bartender laughed as he grabbed a bottle off a shelf behind him. 

“So,” Dean said when he slid two glasses over to them. “Ishim?” 

“Why you askin?” The bartender eyed them as he slung a towel over his shoulder. 

“I’m a marshal,” Sam spoke up. “And these two are my deputies.” Dean resisted protesting at their roles. “We have a warrant for Mr. Jones’ arrest.” 

The bartender pressed both hands to the bar and looked them over. “Can I see the warrant?” 

“Well, that’s the thing,” Dean cut in. “Ishim and a few of the sonsuvbitches who ride with him ambushed us and robbed us. Stole all our papers.” 

The bartender turned his fixed gaze on Dean. “That so?” 

“I’m afraid so,” Sam said. 

After a few more uncomfortable seconds, the bartender broke his stony scrutiny. Dean must’ve looked trustworthy, or at least not completely dishonest because he shared, “Group of fellas were in here last night. Never saw them before.” 

“They say where they were headed?” Sam asked. 

The bartender shrugged noncommittally and Dean rolled his eyes. Digging into his vest pocket, he slid over some more coins and the bartender nodded, counting them. “Think they mentioned headin further north, to follow the river. Sounded like they were in a hurry. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t mind seein them locked up. They started a fight in here and broke one of my tables. I had to kick them out.” 

“Well, we’ll do our best,” Dean said. “Law’s honor.” In his periphery, he saw Sam shake his head exasperatedly. 

The bartender moved off to help another patron and Dean picked up his glass. “I’m always the marshal,” he said in a lowered voice to Sam. 

Sam leaned against the bar. “So about time you give it a break.”

“You two have done this before,” Castiel observed. 

“Make up a story convincin enough and you’ll get any answer you need,” Dean said simply.

“It’s just a game we’d play when we were younger and bored because our pa decided to go off without us in some town,” Sam told Castiel. 

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean said. Why the hell was Sam always sharing so much? He drank from his glass and saw Castiel’s quizzical look. Changing the subject, he said, “So Ishim ain’t here. Best be on our way.” 

But when they’d drained their glasses and Dean started following Sam to the door, Castiel touched his arm.

“Look at this.” He pointed to the newspaper on the bartop. “There’s a bank opening in Bear River City, in a little over a week.”

“So?” Dean glanced at the headline. “You lookin to open an account?”

“Seems there’ll be quite a few important people traveling in for the opening. I’m willing to bet that any stagecoaches coming into town will be carrying plenty of money.”

“Oh. Um.” Dean glanced at the saloon doors swinging shut after Sam. “I thought that after we found Ishim, we were going to be done. Split up and all.”

“Yeah, but surely you wouldn’t be opposed to one more job.” When Dean didn’t confirm or deny the assumption, Castiel added, “The amounta money you’d make from a job like this, you’d be set for a long time.” 

Dean nodded slowly. On one hand, he wanted to be rid of Castiel and a job like this was risky. Real risky. On the other hand, the possibility of being rich, for once in his life, was tempting. 

“Come on, Winchester,” Castiel pressed. “Did getting shot make you lose your nerve?”

“No!” He tried to summon up his reasonable side, rusty from lack of use. “But we don’t know when we’re gonna catch up with Ishim, or even if we’re gonna be able to kill him. I’m not makin any plans for what happens after.”

“Fine, think about it then.” Castiel rolled up the newspaper and stuck it in his back pocket. “But don’t tell Sam. I don’t wanna have to split the money three ways.” With a grin, he headed to the doors.

“I haven’t agree to nothin yet,” Dean argued, following after him. 

•◊•◊•◊•

After a few hours of riding northeast, they reached rushing water and stopped to let their horses graze and drink. Dean looked upriver, where the water glimmered and a big pile of white clouds lay like mountain ridges on the horizon. Though the sky was clear and the sunlight bright, the air was already cooling, promising a chilly night.

“There was a campfire here,” Castiel said, kicking a charred log on the bank of the river. “Could’ve been Ishim.”

Sam crouched at the water’s edge to fill his canteen. “Hope we’re close.” 

“Tired already?” Dean asked. “Gettin soft over in Stanford?” 

“I’m content with my job. It beats this life any day.” Standing, he looked at Dean. “You were happy enough staying in one place, living in Lawrence for a year.” 

Dean tensed at the mention of Lawrence and, deciding not to answer, stepped to the river to dip his bandana into the water. 

“I, uh, I saw Pastor Jim when I was in Lawrence a week ago,” Sam continued, “He said to give you his regards.”

“Ain’t that nice,” Dean muttered. Pastor Jim would’ve been the one to marry him and Lisa. He scrubbed the bandana over his face and neck, the water biting cold, trying not to wonder if Sam had seen Lisa.

“And, um, Mr. Braeden is the one who told me you were in this area.”

Dean turned around so fast, he nearly fell into the river from his crouched position. Putting a hand on the ground to steady himself, he looked up at Sam. “How’d the hell he know that?” he demanded.

Sam raised his hands. “I don’t know. Well, I think he said he talked with a sheriff who locked you up for a night.”

Dean stood, pressing a hand to his throbbing ribs. “Fuckin ‘course he would. It wasn’t for anythin serious,” he said to Sam’s questioning expression. “Probably just for gettin in a fight or some shit, I don’t remember.” Of course people would still be talking about him back in Lawrence. He shouldn’t care anymore what they thought, what Lisa thought.

“Mr. Braeden… related to Lisa?” Castiel asked and Dean’s head snapped to him. He’d nearly forgotten Castiel was standing there listening. 

“You know about Lisa?” Sam asked in a tone of disbelief. Castiel didn’t look mocking or scheming, only curious, but Dean glared at him.

“He doesn't know shit. Cas, shut the fuck up—”

“You told him?” Sam asked, turning on him. “What’d you tell him?” 

His tone was surprisingly accusatory and Dean took a step back. “I didn’t tell him shit, and you ain’t goin to neither.” 

“I didn’t mean to start something,” Castiel started, looking back and forth between them. 

“You know what Dean told me?” Sam asked Castiel, still staring Dean down. “He told me he’d break my face if I ever mentioned Lisa again.” 

“And I will if you keep talkin about her,” Dean said through gritted teeth. “So shut up, because you know I’ll make good on the threat.” 

Sam started to speak, then shut his mouth and stalked off. With an uneasy glance at Dean, Castiel tried to walk away too, but Dean stepped forward and grabbed his arm in a tight grip. “What the fuck are you tryin to do?”

Castiel tried to wrench his arm away. “Wasn’t trying anything. Didn’t realize it was such a loaded question.” 

Dean gripped his arm tighter. “Don’t you fuckin talk about her again.” 

“Alright, alright. I won’t.” 

The fact that Castiel wasn’t getting angry only made Dean angrier. “What I told Sam, that goes for you too.” 

“I thought we were past threats, Dean Winchester.” Dean didn’t know how Castiel could make his full name sound different every time. Spoken now, it felt like a threat, like Castiel was telling him, _we’re close, I know everything about you._

“Don’t know why’d you think that,” Dean said. “Just because we’ve been fuckin doesn’t mean shit, doesn’t change the fact that you’re a son of a whore who needs to keep his mouth shut.” Letting go of Castiel’s arm with a final wrench, he stomped away to their horses. 

Sam sulked as they continued riding, following the river. Castiel kept his mouth shut. Dean had had enough of the both of them. They could both go to hell. He hated his reaction to Castiel mentioning Lisa. He wished he could play it off, but the mere mention of her pushed him over the edge every time. 

Rummaging in his saddlebags, he withdrew his flask and took a long, long drink. The letter Lisa had sent him after he left Lawrence gnawed at his mind. Only a few sentences, not even enough to fill a whole page. Not enough to make the letter worth the price of postage. 

He knew how it started. _Dean. It took me a long time to write this letter and part of me still thinks I shouldn’t write at all..._

He took another drink from his flask. Sunlight glinted sharply off the river which splashed and gurgled unendingly, erratically. Why had Sam reacted so strangely back there? So what if Dean had told Castiel all about Lisa?—a very unlikely what-if. What was it to Sam? 

_What a fucking mess._ In hindsight, he should’ve never gotten involved with the marshal's daughter. Lisa’s father was as strict as anything, especially as Lisa was the only family left to him. And he was the one who locked Dean up more than once for disorderly conduct and fighting in the streets, then went home and told Lisa as proof of just how bad Dean was for her. 

Maybe that should’ve convinced Dean to clean up his act a little—and he had tried, somewhat. But he supposed in the end there just was no changing him. No, he had to make a fool of himself in front of Sam, in front of the whole town, in front of Lisa. _God_ , he was an idiot. 

That was one thing that had flitted through his mind constantly when he was with Lisa, but that he had never voiced: _I ain’t cut out for this, I ain’t good enough for you._ Lisa would’ve hated to know he thought that way, but it was the truth. And he’d proved it time and time again until even she had to believe it. 

It wasn’t a bad turn of luck that sent him out on his own for the past year and a half. Sure, life had dealt him some bad cards, but in the end, he was the one playing them wrong. He wouldn’t say life fucked him over so much as he fucked over himself. 

The bank of the river became crowded with trees, their leafy tops cast in a yellow glow from the setting sun, their trunks and the ground cast in shade. Dusty picked her way through the trees, over the twisted roots protruding from the dirt. 

Dean weighed his flask in his hand and eyed Castiel’s back where he rode ahead, a little ways behind Sam. He could argue all day that he didn’t regret the end of his and Lisa’s relationship, yet he still carried around Lisa’s letters. He wondered reluctantly what it said about him and Castiel that they were both carrying around remnants of former relationships—letters, a photo, a necklace. Looks like he and Castiel were both sentimental sons of bitches. It wasn’t something he was keen to have in common.

They still hadn’t found any sign of Ishim and his companions by the time the sun threatened to duck under the horizon. Castiel suggested stopping for the night, the only words spoken all afternoon, and Dean shrugged. He dismounted when Sam and Castiel did, still painfully sober. 

After unsaddling Dusty and tying her reins to a tree, he went off a few yards to piss. The smell of fir was thick in the air and the tree leaves were beginning to blend together in the gloom. His legs were sore from the day’s travels, though he wished he were sore from something else. Not from Castiel, though, not Castiel. He’d had enough of him. He was going to quit him once and for all. 

When he'd finished his business and was buttoning up his pants, he heard footsteps and looked up to see Castiel walking over. 

“Can’t I get any damn privacy?” he complained. “What do you want now?” 

Castiel stopped a few feet away. “I know you’re still angry at me from earlier,” he started.

“Damn right I’m angry. Don’t know why you’re always startin shit, and now tryin to get Sam involved.” 

“Listen, Dean, I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t know it was something you and Sam have fought about.” 

“And your point is?” Dean crossed his arms and stared Castiel down. Didn’t he realize how much he was pushing it? Dean didn’t want to get in another fist fight with him, but he would if he had to. 

“Fuck, Dean, do I gotta say the words? I’m sorry, alright? I hate when anyone brings up shit from my past, so I get it, alright? You happy now?” 

Dean blinked. Castiel was starting to make a habit out of apologizing and he didn’t know what to make of it. He rallied his anger again. “No, I ain’t happy. You think I give a rat’s ass about a blamed apology? ‘Specially comin from you? I know it don't mean shit. You won’t hesitate to rile me up again if you feel like it.” 

Castiel set his jaw. “Don’t know why I thought I’d waste my time trying to apologize. You’re too goddamn stubborn to see anything a different way. Don’t know why I’m still putting up with you. No goddamn robbery, not all the money in the world would make this shit worth it.” 

He turned away and Dean, his heart thumping, face hot from Castiel’s words, shot back, “Well then why’re you still here? I ain’t beggin you to stay around.” 

Castiel turned on him, his eyes fierce. “Because you’re—you—fucking, dammit—” With one long stride, he grabbed Dean’s shirt and shoved him back against a tree, kissing him roughly. Dean was caught enough by surprise to not react at first, but in the next second, he shoved Castiel off.

With a curse, Castiel stumbled back, but he didn’t make another move. He stayed still, his eyes searching Dean’s. His heart racing, Dean tried to muster up his anger again, then he swore.

Reaching out, he grabbed Castiel’s shirt and dragged him closer to kiss him hard. Castiel fell into him easily, pinning him to the rough bark of the tree, deepening their kiss before pulling away. 

Dean chased his mouth. “I fucking hate you,” he panted.

“No, you don’t,” Castiel said in between kisses, and Dean didn’t see the point in arguing. He bit back a groan when Castiel shoved his leg up against his groin, pressing their bodies flush together, his hardness against Dean’s hip.

Castiel ducked his head to kiss Dean’s neck and Dean pushed his face away. “No. If Sam sees...” 

Castiel groaned and returned to Dean’s lips, licking his way into Dean’s mouth. Grabbing his ass, Dean pulled him closer, causing a throbbing pain in his side which he willfully ignored.

“Fuck, Dean,” Castiel moaned into his mouth, his hands clutching at Dean’s shirt. Every sound sent a shudder through Dean that he tried to satisfy by grinding against Castiel’s leg. 

A hazy plan was forming in his mind to drop to his knees when he heard a twig crack nearby and realized that someone was coming. Hastily, he shoved Castiel away, rougher than before, and Castiel fell back onto his ass. 

The look on his face as he looked up at Dean—both shock and hurt combined—gave Dean a pang of remorse, but he pushed it away at the sound of footsteps approaching. 

He pulled his hand back in a fist as Castiel tried to rise. “Don’t you fuckin dare,” he warned as Sam stepped into view. 

Castiel looked up at Sam, then back at Dean, his eyes understanding. “I won’t.” 

“What the fuck is going on?” Sam exclaimed, rushing over. “I leave you two alone for five fucking minutes and you get in a fight?” 

“I mentioned you-know-who,” Castiel said, slowly pushing himself to his feet with a wary look at Dean. Dean lowered his fist. “Guess I learned my lesson.” 

“Shit, Dean,” Sam exclaimed. Dean hoped in the darkness he couldn’t see the flush in their faces, the way their mouths were red and bruised. 

“I told you I’d do it,” Dean said. His heart thudded in his chest and he avoided Castiel’s eyes. 

“You alright, Cas?” Sam asked and Castiel waved him off. 

“Fine.” He walked back to their camp, a slight limp in his stride. Dean winced, realizing he’d probably hurt Castiel’s leg. Again. 

Sam looked at Dean. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demanded. 

_Wish I knew_ , Dean thought. “You wouldn’t understand,” he replied, tired of trying to untangle it all, and left Sam standing there. 

•◊•◊•◊•

After dinner, after they all bedded down, he stayed awake because something told him Castiel would too. When Sam’s breathing indicated he was asleep, he heard the soft rustle of Castiel sitting up, then the sounds of him pulling on his boots and the crunch of his footsteps as he walked away. 

Dean stared up at the starry sky and considered not going after him. 

Castiel was standing past the trees at the river’s edge, the lit end of a cigarette glowing between his fingertips. He looked over his shoulder as Dean approached, then turned back to stare at the river. Dean stopped by his side and held out his hand for the cigarette. Castiel handed it to him.

A long inhale then exhale, the smoke dissipating. “Couldn’t have Sam find out,” Dean said, handing back the cigarette. 

“I know.” The moonlight reflected off the surface of the water onto his face and Dean looked out over the river. Castiel took a drag. “Think he would’ve done something?” 

Dean glanced at him, then shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably not, because he’d know I’d kill him if he said anythin.” Castiel nodded and raised the cigarette again to his lips. Dean cleared his throat. “If it was my pa, though, he’d have killed me.” He crossed his arms and knew Castiel was watching him. “And I ain’t exaggeratin, that’s the truth.” He tucked his hands under his arms because they were shaking. _Fucking pussy_ , he thought. 

Castiel tapped the ash from the cigarette. Dean watched the small, black flakes drift out onto the water. His heart was pounding and he could feel Castiel’s eyes on him. Then Castiel spoke, 

“When my grandpa found out about Jimmy and I, he told me I wasn’t welcome home anymore.” Dean glanced at him, surprised he was voluntarily opening up. Castiel continued without looking at him, “Well, first he said I was going to hell, but I already knew that. Nothing else to do, so Jimmy and I left home. Jimmy’s pa, I think he knew about us. But he never said anything about it. When we ran away, he would write to Jimmy and ask after me.” He took a drag before continuing, in the same steady voice, “I don’t know if my grandpa ever told my grandma. I don’t know what she thought of me leaving because I never got a single letter. They died two years after. By that time, Jimmy and I were miles and miles away.” 

Why was Castiel telling him this? As if he thought Dean would care, as if he wanted Dean to know. What was more surprising—Dean wanted to know, felt a tug in his heart towards the Castiel in that photo, towards the young men in the photo who had to leave their home. 

He clenched his jaw, staring at the river, and startled when Castiel nudged his arm. “Your turn,” he said in what could’ve been a question. 

Dean snorted. “Of course.” 

“Your idea,” Castiel said, a small smile on his face.

Shaking his head, Dean took the smoke from Castiel. He took a long draw and waited for it to steady him. 

“My pa caught me messin around with another boy when I was thirteen.” The words came out easy enough once he started. “Beat me within an inch of my life. Beat Sam too, because he tried to get involved, though I don’t think he even knew what the fight was about.” He held the cigarette between his fingers. “Then Sam ran away, angry and hurt, and my pa went after him. Left me behind with Bobby. And Bobby didn’t say nothin about what my pa had done, but one thing. He said I didn’t need to go back with my pa, that I could live with him.” 

He could feel Castiel’s eyes on him and that should’ve made him nervous, to be telling this story that he’d never told anyone, not even Sam. But he felt strangely calm. 

“Then my pa came back with Sam in tow, and maybe if he’d threatened me again, I wouldn’t have gone back with him, or maybe I would’ve, but he didn’t say a word. So, I went back to him and Sam.” He took another drag. “I think Bobby gave Pa a piece of his mind, though, because we didn’t see him for years after. And Pa, he never spoke of what had happened again. But he looked at me different, ya know? Which was worse. Not that I hated him for it. Just how it was.”

He handed the cigarette back to Castiel and crossed his arms. “Made a whole mess of things, just because I got caught. Guess he taught me a different lesson than he intended. I only learned I needed to watch my back if I was gonna chase after men well as women. ” 

Castiel nodded. “Sorry,” he started, but Dean shook his head. 

“Nope.” He took a deep breath. “Don’t need your pity.” 

Frowning, Castiel studied him, his head tilted a little. “You didn’t hate your pa back then. You hate him now?” 

Instinctively, Dean started to shake his head, then, exhaling, he nodded, hanging his head in defeat. “I hate the son of a bitch.” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “God, the relief I felt when he died… Fuck.” He shook his head. “If I weren’t goin to hell for a million things already, that’d be enough to send me there.” 

“Don’t think anyone could blame you.”

“He wasn’t all bad,” Dean said, falling into the familiar role of defending his pa. “Prepared me and Sam for the worst. Taught us life wasn’t gonna be easy, taught us to fight tooth and nail, but fuck… I hate him.” The river churned and spun and Dean felt dizzy staring at the twirls and dips. “Never stood up to him once. Sam, he did. Always. Soon as he could talk, he was questionin everythin my pa said and did. But me, I always fell in line whether I thought my pa was crazy or not. Did everythin he asked, and he still couldn’t be bothered to stick around. Don’t know why.”

He realized with a start he had that in common with his pa—always going off on his own, whether he wanted it to be that way or not. Maybe because he sensed people wanted him gone.

Shaking his head, he stepped back from the river. “Anyway. Don’t matter none. This your plan? To get me to spill all my secrets? Didn’t even have to get me drunk.” 

“No—” Castiel started and Dean shook his head again. 

“No, I know.” He couldn’t muster up any anger towards Castiel. Mostly he just felt so goddamn tired. He studied Castiel. “You ever regret leavin home?” 

Castiel shook his head. “I don’t know. Life would be a lot more simple if I had stayed, broke things off with Jimmy.” He kicked the toe of his boot into the dirt. “That’s a horrible thing to say.” 

Somewhere along the river there came a frog’s croak and a small splash of water. Crickets kept up a steady stream of chatter in the low brush and Dean crossed his arms against a chilly gust of wind.

“Truth is,” Castiel said. “I never even thought twice about leaving. It was so easy. Jimmy and I… we left and never looked back. Goes to show how young and clueless we were. We ruined our lives plenty. Well, I did, I suppose...” Dropping the cigarette, he ground it out with his heel. 

Dean felt the urge to say sorry, because he wanted to say something, and because he meant it, oddly enough, because Castiel’s eyes had an odd shine in the moonlight. He realized Castiel hadn’t been pitying him at all before. 

“You know,” Castiel said, plunging his hands into his coat pockets. “I think Jimmy would really hate me if he saw me now. Joining that gang, robbing people. I haven’t worked an honest job in years, I’m hanging around with people the likes of you.” 

“Thanks a lot.”

Castiel looked at him quickly. “I didn’t mean that.” He stared back out at the water. “I just mean… Jimmy and I left our homes because we thought we could have a better life, but look where that brought us. Jimmy’s dead. He had so many morals, so many plans. We would be half-starving and he’d refuse to steal anything. Said God would provide. Said we’d get our own ranch, live together.” 

Slipping one of his hands from his pocket, he held up the cross charm from around his neck and stared at it. “And I trusted him. Thought I had faith too. I don’t have any faith. Soon as Jimmy died, it all went away.”

“That so wrong? You were young, didn’t know what you were up against. Now you know. You got a bad turn of luck. Wouldn’t have mattered if you had all the faith in the world.”

Dropping his necklace back down his shirt, Castiel looked at Dean. “That’s mighty depressing.”

“Well, it’s the truth. This is what we got, no point in holdin out for anythin better.” He couldn’t meet Castiel’s eyes. They were so searching. He didn’t know what Castiel expected to see. “Can’t come undone neither. I made a mess outta my life when my pa died, and look where that got me. Now I know better. Gotta take life’s shit as it is.”

“Guess we both got bad turns of luck,” Castiel said quietly. 

Dean shook his head. “No, no. I ruined my life well enough all on my own.” He shrugged. “Nothin I can do about it. Besides, I like my life now. I ain’t beholden to anyone, I do what I see fit and no one can say anythin against me.” He didn’t know whether he believed everything he was saying. Part of him still hoped for something different, better. But what would something better even look like? There was no changing him. 

“I ruined my life plenty too,” Castiel said. “But I wish I could change it.” 

He was silent a moment, then he glanced at Dean and turned away. “Should get some rest.”

Dean nodded though Castiel couldn’t see him, and after a moment, followed him back to camp. He reckoned there wasn’t anything more to say.


	13. Something Along the Rise

"I hired Eileen about a month after starting up the firm," Sam said. "She's very intelligent. She runs more of the secretarial side of things, and she's been a big help, really helped me establish clients and benefactors."

"Hmm," Dean said, eyes following where Castiel rode up ahead. They'd risen early that morning and continued riding alongside the river, keeping a steady pace. Several hours had passed, however, with no other signs of Ishim. Part of Dean wondered if they might need to give up soon, though he knew that wasn't really an option. He could only imagine how Castiel had lived the past month, always glancing over his shoulder. It'd only been a week for Dean and he already knew he wanted no part in that life.

He half listened as Sam continued speaking. Since they’d begun riding, Sam had talked a steady stream about his business, recent cases he'd taken, people he’d met. Dean figured it was the easiest, safest topic, considering how their day had gone yesterday. Though hearing Sam speak of Stanford only heightened the contrast between their individual lives. Somehow chasing after an outlaw didn’t seem to fit with the person Sam had grown up to become.

He smiled, hearing Sam talk about Eileen. Sounded like someone was smitten. He would’ve teased Sam about it if he wasn’t so distracted, his mind continually tracing over his and Castiel’s conversation last night. A quiet voice in his head whispered that he’d told Castiel too much. It would be just like Castiel to find some way to use what he had said against him. 

_Don’t matter none,_ he told himself. He and Castiel would be parting ways soon enough. Deliberately looking away from Castiel, he studied the river. Nothing to worry about.

The trees providing them shade yesterday had fallen away, leaving them bare under the sun's early rays. Sam took off his hat and fanned himself with it before putting it back on. As he did so, Dean noticed a thin scar across his temple, near his hairline, and an image flashed through his mind: Sam's eyes wide, his face white as blood ran down over his cheek. 

Frowning, Dean looked back at the land before them. He remembered that fight between them. Sam still hadn't passed him in height, and Dean couldn't have been older than seventeen—too old to still be fighting his younger brother, but Sam had been angry. 

He was usually the level-headed one between them, but he'd confronted Dean over a girl he liked and who he claimed Dean had "stolen." Whether that was true or not, Dean couldn't remember. All he knew for sure was that, as usual, he had thrown the first punch, and then ended the fight when, in their tussle, Sam's head hit the ground and started bleeding.

Their pa wasn’t around and Dean had inwardly panicked, scrambled to stitch Sam up as well as he could. Thankfully, the injury proved to nothing terribly serious and the gash had healed well enough.

The worst part though, was how Sam refused to talk to him for two weeks afterwards. Dean had been miserable.

He glanced at Sam now, wondered if Sam remembered their fight as vividly. He hadn't known Sam still had the scar; he wondered if Sam wore his hair long to hide it.

"Fuck," Sam said suddenly, startling him from his memories.

"What?" Dean looked ahead where Sam was staring and slumped in his saddle. "Aw, fuck."

Ahead, the river forked into two thinner streams. They branched out at an angle to each other which widened as they extended into the distance. So much for following one route.

"They were here," Castiel announced up ahead. He swung down from Halo and crouched over the remnants of a fire on the river bank.

Reaching his side, Dean pulled Dusty to a stop and looked around. One branch of the river traveled more north, sparkling in the sunlight. The other continued the original eastern route, snaking through a distant crop of trees. 

"Still warm," Castiel said, touching the fire coals. Standing, he brushed ash from his hands. "We're close."

Sam scanned the land around them. "How close...?"

At the uneasiness in his voice, Dean brought his hand to his gunbelt, but the land around them was quiet besides the rippling of the river and bird calls. "Alright," he said, lowering his hand, "so they could've gone in either direction if they kept followin the river. If we can find their trail, we can still catch them by surprise."

Castiel nodded and stepped to the river bank to look for tracks in the mud. Dean dismounted and followed his lead. The low brush scattered around the river banks looked, in general, beaten down and ragged. No clear trail in sight. And if Ishim and his companions were smart, they would have stayed clear of the banks and stuck to the hard dirt where hoof prints wouldn't be easy to spot.

"Finding their trail being the opportune phrase," Sam said, as Dean frowned at a splintered branch and tried to decide if it'd been broken by the wind or a horse passing by. "Maybe we should split up, follow each branch of the river for a ways."

"You know that's not a smart idea," Dean said. "I don't wanna have to save your ass because you stumbled across Ishim." Looking up, he motioned to Sam. "Get down here and help look." 

"I swear I never thought I'd have to do detective work," Sam said, dismounting. He held onto his horse's reins as he looked around. "Searching for clues like some Sherlock Holmes."

"Who?" Dean asked, straightening after giving up trying to find signs of travel in the brush.

Castiel turned around from the riverside. "You've read _A Study in Scarlet_?"

"Yes, of course." Sam looked surprised. "It's become a very popular book among reading circles in Stanford."

Dean realized they were talking about the book Castiel was reading. He rolled his eyes. "Stay focused, fellas. We got real business to attend to."

Squinting against the sun, he scanned the land around them. The land sloped upwards to their left and he eyed the hill, knowing if anyone stood there, they'd have a perfect view of the riverside. Then he frowned.

"There's wagon tracks over there," he said, pointing to the hill and interrupting Sam and Castiel's discussion about the detective novel. 

Castiel followed his gaze and huffed a laugh. "Doubt Ishim's riding in a wagon."

Dean shot him a dirty look. "Yeah, but might mean there's a town close by. I bet Ishim and his buddies didn't pass up a chance for a break from the sun and some booze."

"Hmm." Castiel stared at the furrows on the hillside, then nodded. "Reckon you're right."

"Well, there you go." Going to Dusty, Dean swung up into the saddle. "Could your Sherlock Holmes do that?"

"Probably," Sam started.

"Yes," Castiel said at the same time.

"God, you two are annoyin," Dean muttered. He urged Dusty forward. "Let's go."

•◊•◊•◊•

The sun had reached its zenith by the time they rode into town, following the wagon tracks. It was hardly a bustling town, only a collection of houses and establishments that had sprouted up in a narrow valley. Though, Dean did spot a town jail and church, so the place already had a leg up on most settlements he'd visited.

He watched a man drive a wagon past and looked at Castiel and Sam pointedly. Other than him, the main street was empty and quiet besides the low thrum of singing voices from inside the church. Dean realized it must be Sunday. 

"Quite a few horses outside,” he commented, pulling Dusty to a stop across the street from the saloon. 

Castiel leaned forward to study the horses tied to the hitching post. “That could be them.”

“I’ll go inside and check,” Sam offered. “Ishim doesn’t know what I look like.” 

Dean nodded and Castiel said, “Look out for a grey haired, bearded guy with three others.” 

Sam rode across the street and Dean watched as he tied his horse to the post and went inside. Dusty snorted and swished her tail and Dean patted her neck.

"He better be in there," Castiel muttered. Dean glanced at him and their eyes met briefly before they both looked away. In the bright sunlight of the day, their conversation the night prior seemed distant, along with whatever urges that had induced Dean to share his private matters. It was so much easier to think of and say such things in the dark. But, for whatever foolish reason, he couldn’t bring himself to regret anything he’d said.

“We got him,” Castiel said excitedly, and Dean snapped out of his reverie. Sam had stepped out of the saloon into the street and now motioned to them. 

“Looks like it’s our lucky day.” Dean flicked his reins. “Time to give those bastards what they deserve.” 

He and Castiel hitched their horses outside the saloon, and Castiel glanced at Dean, smiling a little, attempting levity. “You sure you don’t want to sit this one out? With your injury and all?” 

Dean pulled out his gun and cocked it. “Just don’t let Ishim get away again.” He looked at Sam and Sam held up four fingers. 

“At a table in the very back,” he said. Dean nodded. _Easy enough,_ he told himself, though his pulse was quickening. 

Tapping his fingers on his gun belt, Sam cast nervous glances at the street and saloon doors. Dean flashed him a grin, patting him on the shoulder as he walked past to the doors. The trick, he reckoned, was to not think about what was to happen. Start thinking about the blood, the gunsmoke, the potential of death and you’d chicken out. Better to just go in guns blazing and not think of the consequences. 

Trusting Sam and Castiel were behind him, Dean pushed open the saloon doors and stepped inside. A second for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior, then settle on Ishim and three others seated at a table in the back of the sparsely filled saloon. 

“No guns allowed!” the bartender started to call, but the end of his sentence was obscured by Dean’s gun firing. 

In an instant, the saloon erupted into chaos. One of the men seated at the table with Ishim jerked backwards, toppling his chair and sending glass crashing to the ground. Ishim and the two others leapt to their feet, pistols pointed at Dean. 

Firing off another shot, Dean threw himself behind the bar. He ducked instinctively as bullets flew and smacked the bartop over his head. He rose up for a second to aim a shot over the bar and caught sight of Sam ducking behind a table which had been overturned in the hasty retreat of other saloon patrons. 

He startled as Castiel threw himself down behind the bar next to him. “You couldn’t have given us a warning?” Castiel yelled above the cursing and echoing gunshots.

“Damn you!” the bartender shouted at them, crouched down at the other end of the bar. 

“Shut the fuck up or you’ll be dead too!” Castiel yelled back.

“One of them’s dead. You’re welcome.” Dean chanced another glance over the bar. He couldn’t see Ishim, but one of the other men was crouched behind a chair to shield himself from Sam’s shooting. Dean fired and the man yelped and fell over. 

Dean ducked down as a volley of shots splintered the bar. “Another dead, or close to it.” 

Castiel set his jaw and fired off two shots over the bar before chancing a glance. “I see Ishim,” he said, ducking back down. He checked his gun’s barrel, his eyes narrowed in focus. “He’s mine.” He began half-crawling to the other end of the bar, shoving past the bartender. 

_Sonuvabitch is gonna get himself killed,_ Dean thought, watching him. Then he heard a yelp that he knew instantly came from Sam. Looking over the bar, he saw Castiel duck behind a chair and fire off a volley of shots at the back corner of the saloon where Ishim was hunkered down. Then a commotion drew his eyes to the saloon doors where someone was tackling Sam. 

Dean scrambled to his feet. Ishim was occupied with Castiel, and Dean thought he was in the clear, but as he tried to step out from behind the bar, a bullet whizzed past his ear. Ducking, Dean wheeled around to see who had shot at him. 

The man he’d wounded earlier lay on his side, clutching his gun, a scowl directed at Dean despite the way his face was screwed up in pain. Retreating half behind the bar, Dean shot at him. His bullet splintered the chair the injured man was lying behind, eliciting a stream of curses and several gunshots. 

_Was that three just now?_ The man couldn’t have too many more bullets. The crash of glass breaking alerted Dean to where Sam was trying to fight off his attacker. A chair had gone through one of the front windows and Sam had fallen to the ground.

The injured man had grown silent and, steadying himself, Dean decided to take a chance. 

Jumping to his feet, he fired at the same time another shot rang out from across the room. With a grunt, the injured man fell back heavily to the floor with two bullet holes in his head. 

Confused, Dean looked up to see Castiel across the saloon lowering his smoking gun. He met Dean's eyes with a roguish smile before taking advantage of the pause in firing from Ishim to scurry across the room to another vantage point. 

Remembering he was supposed to be rescuing Sam, Dean wrenched his eyes back to the front of the saloon. Sam was grappling with the outlaw, who was fighting tooth and nail to pin him down and land a punch. Before Dean could move, the outlaw slammed his fist into the side of Sam’s face and Sam’s head smacked the floor.

Neglecting caution, Dean ran forward and grabbed the man’s coat, yanking him away from his brother. Sam’s dazed, bloody expression ignited a fury in him that he hadn’t felt since they were young and he’d defended Sam against bullies. 

He threw the outlaw onto the ground, pulled his gun, and fired. His gun clicked empty. 

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, stepping back as the outlaw recovered and lunged at him. He nearly tripped over a broken chair and swung his gun up as a last resort. It connected with the side of the man’s face, sending him reeling backwards. 

Tossing his gun aside, Dean shoved the outlaw into the bar. The man swore at him and Dean grabbed his hair, slammed his face down. He felt and heard the satisfying crack of bones giving under the blow, then the man kicked back at him and he lost his footing on the blood and liquor coating the floor.

He crashed to the ground, landing hard on his side. The explosion of pain in his ribs made him gasp, but even so, he struggled to rise, to move before the outlaw could do worse. 

No such luck. He’d only risen to his knees when the outlaw straightened off the bar, blood obscuring his features, and slammed his boot into Dean’s shoulder. Dean fell back and scrambled to avoid another kick. He caught the toe of a boot to his forearm and his hand slipped on blood staining the wooden floorboards. Another piercing pain in his ribs took his breath away.

Through the blood rushing in his ears, he heard Sam yell something. He looked up in time to see Sam swing a broken chair leg down across the back of the outlaw’s head with a _crack_. The outlaw’s leering expression crumpled and he tottered forward, then collapsed on top of Dean. 

Swearing, Dean shoved him off. Holding onto his side, he stumbled to his feet, bent over from the shooting pain in his ribs. “Gun, now,” he managed, holding out his hand towards Sam.

“He’s out cold,” Sam said, dropping the chair leg with a clatter. Dean would’ve kept arguing but for a crash at the back of the saloon. 

_Shit. Cas._

Wheeling around, he saw Ishim had Castiel pinned down with a knee on his chest. He was aiming punches at Castiel’s face, Castiel struggling and swearing bloody murder. 

Though he was having trouble straightening up all the way, Dean ran forward on instinct. Before he could reach them, though, Castiel grabbed a broken bottle and slammed it against Ishim’s head. Ishim fell to the side and Castiel freed himself out from under him. 

Skidding to a stop, Dean grabbed a body on the ground and searched the dead man’s holster. Retrieving a gun, he stood and aimed at Ishim. 

Ishim lay wheezing on his back. Castiel pushed himself to his feet, blood running from a cut along his temple. The look on his face was one Dean recognized too well—fierce anger and intent—and Dean lowered the gun. 

“Cas!” he yelled, and Castiel’s head swiveled to him. Dean slid the gun to him and ran forward to grab Ishim before he could rise.

“Remember me?” he asked, slamming Ishim back onto the ground. He stomped his boot down onto Ishim’s chest and Ishim coughed and swore at him. 

“Fuck you!” His eyes were dazed but he raised a hand to point vaguely at Castiel. A ragged gash cut across his cheek. “You fucking—”

Castiel fired and Ishim’s hand dropped to the ground. Blood trickled down between his eyes, joining the blood already pooling at his collar from the gash across his face. He lay still.

Ringing silence. 

Cautiously, Dean looked around the saloon, making sure everyone was indeed taken care of. Four bodies on the floor. Bartender swearing behind the bar. Voices and yelling in the street outside. 

Sam rushed over to them. “Are you guys alright?” He held his wrist in his hand, his shirt sleeve ripped at the elbow. 

Castiel nodded, staring down at Ishim. Reaching over, Dean took the gun from his hand and fired twice at the man Sam had knocked out. The unconscious body jerked and Dean looked at Sam. “Now I am.”

Despite his words, his adrenaline was fading and the ache in his side was becoming more acute. Sam commented on the state of the saloon, on the people gathering outside, but Dean wasn’t listening.

“Shit,” he muttered as black spots widened at the edges of his vision. “And that’s my cue.” He eased himself onto the ground since none of the nearby chairs had four legs anymore.

Starting forward, Castiel grabbed his arm, helped him down. “Did you get shot?” 

Dean looked down at himself. Fresh blood stained his shirt, but he shook his head. “Looks like I pulled some stitches.” He was acting casually, but in truth, every time he inhaled, he felt a sharp pain in his side that clenched his chest. 

“Shit, Dean,” Sam started, and Dean waved him off. 

“They sure put up a fight, didn’t they?” he asked with a grimace as he tried to sit up straighter.

“Not enough of one.” Giving Ishim’s body a kick, Castiel smiled triumphantly at Dean and Dean couldn't help but grin. They were alive; they’d made it. He and Castiel no longer had targets on their backs.

“You assholes!” 

Dean’s head snapped to the bar where the bartender had risen to his feet. He looked around with shock on his face. “Look what you’ve done to my place!” 

“You should be thanking us,” Castiel said cooly. “We just got rid of a very notorious outlaw.” 

“So, I think drinks are on the house, right?” Dean asked. The bartender opened his mouth to protest, but Dean held up his gun and he shut his mouth. 

“I, um, well. We’re very sorry,” Sam tried, holding out his hands placatingly.

“You’re gonna pay for this,” the bartender sputtered, hurrying out the saloon doors. “I’m getting the sheriff!” 

“Go hang yourself!” Dean called. The doors swung shut behind him.

His head had ceased spinning so Dean tried to stand. He took the hand Castiel offered and gritted his teeth as Castiel pulled him to his feet. A jolt of pain shot through his ribs as he straightened. Blood ran down the side of his neck and he touched his ear gingerly, realized it was bleeding. _When had that happened?_

Though his vision was still decidedly unsteady, he walked to the bar, his boots crunching over the glass shards on the floor. Grabbing a bottle from one of the shelves, he started pouring. 

“Dean, we should go.” Sam warned. He winced as he pulled a splinter out of his arm. 

“Use your big lawyer words and get us out of trouble,” Dean said, throwing back a glass of whatever the hell was in the bottle. _Bourbon,_ he decided. 

Castiel crouched down to check the pulse of one of the men on the ground. “All dead,” he confirmed, standing. Then he looked down at his hand. “Fuck." Blood streamed down his wrist and dripped to the floor from a long bloody gash across his palm. 

“Here,” Dean said. He untied his bandana from around his neck and motioned for Castiel to give him his hand. As Dean wrapped his bandana around the gash, Castiel grabbed the bottle of bourbon with his free hand and filled a glass. 

“I deserve a drink,” he said at Dean’s raised eyebrow. He drained the glass as Dean finished tying the bandana. 

“Well, you’re a free man now.” Dean raised his own glass, trying not to wince at the sharp pain in his ribs. “No more running from Ishim.” 

Castiel grinned and looked back at Ishim’s body. “Feels good.” 

“I really think we should be on the move,” Sam muttered, dipping his bandana into a water bucket behind the bar and dabbing at his face. He’d have a pretty nasty shiner under his left eye, but overall he didn’t look too injured. 

“We’ll make somethin up," Dean said, pouring him a drink. Holding it out, he asked, “You alright? That fucker wasn't messin around.” 

Sam nodded, taking the glass. “I’m fine.”

The saloon doors creaking made Dean look up. “What the hell went on in here?” a man asked, pausing on the threshold of the saloon. He pushed his coat back to expose the gold star on his vest and scanned the room. The bartender followed, arms crossed over his chest and a frown set on Dean, Castiel, and Sam. 

Dean pointed to Ishim’s body. “You were harborin a dangerous criminal, you know that?” 

The sheriff looked first at him, then at Ishim. “Hold on, who—” 

“Ishim Jones,” Castiel cut in. “You heard of him?” 

The sheriff’s expression tightened. “Well, yes, actually, but—” 

“But you fuckers destroyed my saloon!” the bartender exploded. 

“We’re very sorry about that, sir,” Sam spoke up. “We’re willing to pay you back for the damages.” 

“Like hell we are,” Dean protested. “There a reward for killin Ishim? Because I want it.” 

The bartender started cursing at him and the sheriff held up his hands. “Now hold on, I think we can figure something out. First things first, who the hell are you three and what business do you have killing Jones? Along with these two... three others,” he added, counting the other bodies.

“I’m a lawyer, from Stanford,” Sam said. “I have papers in my bag I can show you and I know marshals and sheriffs who can vouch for me.”

“Alright, alright, show me the papers.” The sheriff frowned at Dean and Castiel. “What about you two?”

“We’re, uh, we work with him,” Dean said.

“My associates,” Sam explained. “Ishim and his gang, they were chasing after us, trying to kill us. We were acting in self-defense.”

The sheriff sighed, rubbing at his forehead. “Listen, this is gonna end up in plenty of paperwork for me. I’ll have to contact the state marshal if you want the reward, give him your names. You’ll have to go to court, I’ll have to be a witness—”

“Is that really necessary?” Castiel interrupted, voicing Dean’s protests.

“Alright, how about this?” Sam suggested, stepping away from the bar. “We were never here. You and your deputies killed Ishim and these other outlaws. You take the credit, we’ll take the reward.”

“And we want the money now,” Dean spoke up.

The sheriff studied them, worrying his lip, then glanced at the bartender. “Grant, go outside.”

“What?” The bartender sputtered, eyes wide. “They destroyed my saloon! You’re really gonna agree to their demands?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “ _And_ I’ll pay for the damages.” 

“Thank God for a rich brother,” Dean muttered to Castiel. 

“We have a deal then?” the sheriff asked cautiously. Grant didn’t look incredibly pleased, but he wasn’t protesting Sam paying up. “Long as you three get lost and never come back here again.” 

“Fine with us,” Dean said. “Our business is done here anyway.” 

“Alright, then.” The sheriff motioned to Sam. “Show Grant the money and I’ll get you the reward.” Nodding, Sam followed the sheriff and Grant out of the saloon. 

“We’ll be here drinkin,” Dean called after them. Turning back to Castiel, he remarked, “This ain’t such a bad gig, Cas. Track down outlaws, get the reward.” Castiel gave him an odd look and Dean realized what he was insinuating, that he and Castiel stick with each other, find another venture to join in on together.

Before he could amend his statement, Castiel said, "Bounty hunters. Your brother would be so proud.” He wiped at his forehead with his bandana and pulled it away to look at the damage. Blood streaked across his face now and Dean said, 

“You’re only making it worse.” 

“Well, you don’t look so good yourself.” Castiel threw his bandana down on the bar and refilled his glass. 

“Rude thing to say to someone who saved your life.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?" Castiel asked. "I helped save _your_ life.” 

“I had it handled.” 

Castiel shook his head and, tilting back his head, downed his glass. 

“Don’t you get drunk on me now,” Dean said, trying to stand or lean on the bar in a way that wouldn’t aggravate his wound. 

“I won’t if you promise to see a doctor.” 

“I’m fine.” He drank from his glass, glancing at Castiel. “Don’t need to worry about me.”

Castiel studied him and Dean didn’t like the way his eyes were roaming over him, like he was looking at every imperfection—’least, that’s that he reckoned Castiel was seeing. He didn’t know what else there was to look at. 

Then Castiel shrugged and grabbed the bourbon bottle, refilled his glass. “Just don’t know how we’re gonna celebrate if you’re immobilized—” 

“Oh no, I’m ridin you next chance I get, gunshot wound be damned.” Castiel’s eyes grinned at him over his glass and Dean said, “Alright, put the liquor down, I’ll go to the doctor.” He took the glass from Castiel. 

“I’m nowhere near drunk.” 

“We both know you’re a lightweight.” 

Castiel rolled his eyes, then glanced at the saloon doors. “Come here,” he said and, grabbing Dean’s collar, pulled him across the bar to kiss him. It hurt, but Dean pressed into it anyway, swiping his tongue across the seam of Castiel’s lips to deepen their kiss. _God,_ he wanted Cas, it felt like it’d been ages. 

The sheriff and Sam’s voices outside the saloon broke them apart. “Your brother better leave for Stanford soon,” Castiel said, his face flushed. 

“Yeah, I’ll make sure the fucker gets lost.” Dean drained the last of his glass and stepped out from behind the bar, smacking Castiel’s ass as he passed. “Come on, let’s find out about this reward we’re gettin.” 

Castiel tried to grab him and Dean swatted him away. “Not now, Cas. You want Sam to find out?” He got a strange satisfaction out of denying him when Castiel had teased him enough before. 

“I don’t care if the whole town knows,” Castiel said in a low voice, the look in his eyes making Dean shudder. 

Composing himself, he turned away. “Wipe that damn look off your face." 

“First chance we get, we’re taking,” Castiel said, following him to the saloon doors. 

•◊•◊•◊•

“Split three ways, that’s...” Dean counted out the bills. “Not bad.” He handed Sam his share of the reward, his movement stiff against the thickness of the new bandaging around his chest. 

“You keep it,” Sam said, and Dean shook his head. 

“You helped, take it.” 

“I’ll take it if you don’t want it,” Castiel said from where he was stoking the fire. He looked up and grinned at them. Sam pocketed the money. 

Picking up a bottle he’d taken from the saloon, Dean poured bourbon into cups for himself and Sam. “Not such a bad life, huh, Sammy? Bet you could get used to this.” 

Sam snorted, rubbing his wrist. It was bandaged, but the doctor had said it was only a sprain and would heal soon. “Nearly getting killed, sleeping on dirt,” he lifted the lid of the pot on the coals and looked inside, “whatever this shit is… Just what about this is supposed to beat living in a town with your own clean bed?” 

“Aw, come on.” Dean handed him one of the cups, “Admit it, you miss this. It’s just like the old days. Well, minus murderous outlaws and gun fights.”

Sam shrugged, fighting back a smile. “I guess it has some sort of nostalgic appeal.” Dean grinned.

They ate and drank as their shadows grew longer, as the sky turned dark blue. Sam told them about his work and the investment business ventures he’d gotten involved in, all of which sounded incredibly boring and painstaking. Dean could tell he enjoyed it though, and he felt a twinge of guilt seeing the bruises along Sam’s face, for involving Sam in his and Castiel’s revenge mission. It was Sam’s choice, though, after all. Dean had warned him and Sam had come along anyway. 

He wondered what would’ve happened had he gone with Sam to Stanford. He might’ve pulled himself together, gotten a job, made a decent living. Maybe found a wife and had some kids. It was almost too absurd to consider—he wasn’t even sure he wanted that kind of life anymore. Any such dreams had died with his relationship with Lisa.

“I would’ve liked to keep going to school,” Castiel said when Sam mentioned college back East.

“You? College?” Dean kicked a log further into the fire.

Castiel shrugged. “I always liked school. I wanted to graduate.”

“Why didn’t you?” Sam asked.

“Left home before then,” Castiel answered simply. His and Dean’s eyes met over the fire. “I don’t regret it, though. Just what had to happen.” 

Dean stared down at his cup. He wished he could feel the same confidence in the choices he’d made throughout his life. 

“Anyway.” Castiel leaned forward to fill his tin cup from the coffee pot. “Looks like my luck has turned now. Don’t have to watch my back anymore, can finally go where I want without worrying the Rogues will find me.”

“I’ll toast to that,” Dean said, lifting his cup. Finally, a decision that he could be proud of—choosing to go after Ishim—something in his life that had turned out well. “Here’s to payback.”

Castiel smiled at him and Sam raised his drink, and clinking their cups together, they drank to celebrate.

•◊•◊•◊•

“I can’t believe we really did it.”

“You were doubtin me? Told you we’d get Ishim.” To be honest, Dean was just as pleasantly surprised as Castiel. He looked over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the campfire light filtering between the trees, and hoped Sam was still asleep. 

Castiel stumbled over a log hidden in the shadows and Dean grabbed his elbow. “Guess a thank you is in order—” 

“No, no, Ishim was after my ass too. I was tryin to save my skin much as yours.” He stopped walking and looked up at the sky, or what he could see of it through the dark canopy of trees. “This is fuckin bullshit. Why’re we out here?” 

“Because your brother insisted we stay away from towns or trails, ‘case that bartender got some folks together to go after us.” Castiel stopped walking and turned to look at him. 

“And because someone didn’t want to wait,” Dean added, giving him a pointed look he hoped Castiel would catch even in the dark. 

“Fine, forget it, we’ll try another day.” Castiel took a step towards their camp, now completely hidden from view, and Dean threw out his arm to block him. When Castiel looked at him, the moonlight was just bright enough for Dean to catch a smile twitching on his lips. 

They kissed and Castiel twined his fingers in Dean’s hair, pressed up against him. Dean took a small step back and his boot caught on a tree root, nearly making him trip. 

“Shit,” he exclaimed, pulling away from Castiel to catch his balance. Castiel laughed at him and Dean motioned for him to keep his voice down. Glancing back in the direction of their camp, he complained, "What I wouldn’t give for a fuckin hotel room.” 

“Better this than nothing, though, right?” Castiel asked. Dean shrugged in feigned indifference and Castiel rolled his eyes and kissed him again, his stubble rough against Dean’s cheek. Then, abruptly, he pulled back. “Now that Ishim’s dead, reckon we can rob that bank.”

Dean dropped his hand from where it’d risen to Castiel’s cheek. “You still wanna do that?”

“May as well. I don’t have any other plans. Doubt you do either.” Dean hesitated and Castiel added, “One more easy job, then we split up.”

Why the hell couldn’t he shake Castiel? “Alright,” he gave in. “One more. I was gonna head towards Bear River City anyway.” 

Castiel smiled and when they kissed again, Dean shoved his hands under Castiel’s coat, along his vest, felt the warmth of Castiel’s body under his hands that sparked a warmth in his own chest. Castiel’s cold hands slid along his collar to the back of his neck, and he shivered when Castiel stepped between his legs, knocking their hips together. A feeling swelled in his chest; he couldn’t get close enough. He wrapped his arms around Castiel’s waist, pulled him closer, and Castiel let out a sigh that sent a thrill down his spine. 

But he had a reputation to uphold; he couldn’t have Castiel guess how much he was enjoying this, knowing Castiel wanted him enough to drag him out into the middle of the woods, in the dark. 

“Alright, hurry it up,” he said, forcing himself to break their kiss. He pulled his arms from around Castiel’s waist and pushed him lightly. “We don’t got all night.”

“And you said I go too fast?” Castiel grumbled, though he was already unbuttoning Dean’s pants. 

“I’ll make it up to you next.” 

“You better,” Castiel warned, but he smiled a little as he started to get on his knees. His smile made something flutter in Dean’s chest, out of place amidst the deep ache and heat settling at the base of his stomach. 

He grabbed Castiel’s arm and pulled him up, kissed him long. Something like happiness, but he couldn’t be sure because he hadn’t truly felt the emotion in a long time. Though he thought he’d remember the sensation. Something he hadn’t felt since the first time he met Lisa, before the doubts and dark thoughts crowded it out. Maybe something he’d never felt before. 

Trying to ignore the feeling, he let go of Castiel and leaned back against the tree which roots he’d nearly tripped over before. The flutter was overwhelmed when Castiel took him in his mouth, and he tried to convince himself that the feeling flooding him now was all there ever was; nothing more than lust and desire for now, nothing more or unique.


	14. Same Page

“Your rich friends are gonna have plenty of questions about what happened to you.” Sitting on the bed in Sam’s hotel room, Dean uncorked the bottle of whiskey one of the hotel staff had brought up. 

Sam turned from the mirror where he’d been inspecting the stitches under his right eye. “I’ll make something up.” He sat down on the bed against the headboard and took the glass Dean handed him. After a long day of traveling, he’d relented to stopping for the night in a town—either accepting that they were safe from revenge from the bartender, or finally giving in to Dean and Castiel’s nagging. 

Castiel had gone to his room earlier and Dean wondered if he was asleep or still awake, waiting for him to show. A tingling sensation spread to his fingertips in anticipation. He’d share a few drinks with Sam, then pay Castiel a visit. 

“Make up a badass story, though.” Dean set the bottle back on the tray. “Not, you got thrown off a horse, or got drunk and fell down a flight of stairs.” 

“Alright,” Sam said, looking amused. He drank from his glass and rested it on his thigh. Silence settled in the room and Dean scuffed his boot on the floor, saw a streak of red dirt mark the wood. “Long time since we did this,” Sam commented, motioning to himself and Dean. 

_Look whose fault that is,_ Dean nearly said, but he bit the words back. “Hmm,” he only said and drank from his glass. They would reach the cabin tomorrow and part ways there, Sam off to Stanford, he and Castiel off to Bear River City. He could give Sam this moment at least—pretend they were sitting in their apartment in Lawrence, sharing a drink after a day of work. 

Folding one long leg up on the bed to face him, Sam said, “Listen, Dean. I want to apologize.” 

Looking up, Dean raised an eyebrow. “For?” 

“I shouldn’t have left for Stanford when I did. You were going through a lot, and I should have been there—” 

“No.” Dean waved him off. “There was nothin you coulda done. You did what you had to do to take care of yourself.” He was surprised to realize he meant the words as they left his mouth. 

“Regardless, I’m sorry. It couldn’t have been easy.”

Dean only shrugged, keeping his expression neutral. He refilled his glass, chancing a glance at Sam. He wondered if Sam expected an apology from him too, but Sam wasn’t watching him expectantly, was only looking down, twisting a thread on the cuff of his jeans. 

“So, life in Stanford,” Dean said, figuring there was no sense in opening old wounds. “You found a woman yet?” His tone was casual, but he was actually curious. He had no idea how Sam was living his personal life. “Besides all the whores, I mean.” 

Sam snorted. “No, nothing like that.” 

“What about Eileen? Sounds like you're pretty fond of her."

"Oh, uh, I don't know,” Sam said, reddening. He broke the loose thread on his jeans. “I mean, yes, I suppose. We've grown closer since we started working together...”

“Fallin for your secretary, huh?” Dean grinned. “You’re almost a real sleazebag now.” 

Sam let out a laugh. “Guess so.” 

Dean smiled. A glance at the bottle of whiskey showed it to be still more than half-way full. He wondered how soon before he could get out of here and make his way to Castiel’s room. Last night had been too hasty; he couldn’t deny his desire to map out Castiel’s body under his palms once again. It was almost amusing how a few weeks ago, he’d thought if Castiel only fucked him once, he’d be set, his interest faded, on to the next. How wrong he’d been. Though it was worrisome, he knew the only reason he wanted Castiel specifically—not some whore, not just any lay—was because he really shouldn’t, had to hide his and Castiel’s trysts from Sam. It was the challenge of it that drew him in. Just as before it’d been the challenge of getting Castiel to admit his desire. Nothing more.

Sam refilled his glass and Dean knew he wasn’t expecting him to leave anytime soon. “I gotta ask,” Dean said, deciding if he was gonna be here a while, he may as well give in to the question that had been itching inside his skull for the past couple of days. Sam looked up at him. “Why’d you come after me when I told you to get lost in Piedmont? You knew I couldn’t have been tangled up in anythin good. Why’d you get involved?” 

Nodding, Sam worried his lip and didn’t answer right away. Seeing how seriously he took the question, Dean grew apprehensive.

Finally, Sam said, “I figured if you were to get in trouble and get yourself killed, and I wasn’t around and we’d left off as we did, I’d never forgive myself.” 

Blinking, Dean shifted. “Oh. Well.” He took a long swallow from his glass. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise to hear Sam say such a thing, but it was a shock all the same. He wondered how he would have felt in Sam’s shoes, if he knew Sam was in a fix and was going it alone. 

There was no need to wonder. He knew he would have followed Sam in a heartbeat, kicked his ass himself before he let him go off and do something foolish like get himself killed. 

Ruefully, he stared down at his glass. Maybe this alcohol was hitting him harder than he’d expected, making his thoughts go all soft. He cleared his throat. “Good thing you came along, then. Nice to have some extra help in killin those dirty bastards.” 

“You’re welcome,” Sam said to his implicit thanks. “You and Cas make a pretty efficient team, though. I'm surprised you only started traveling together recently.” 

Dean frowned. "We got the same ideas about things,” he said slowly. Mainly, when to kill and when to spare. A general love of money. And, most importantly, an inclination towards the same sex.

He eyed his brother, wondering if Sam suspected the truth about what was really going on between him and Castiel. “We’ve gotten closer since we started travelin together,” he tried. 

Sam only nodded. A familiar recklessness was crawling in Dean’s stomach. When would he ever see Sam again? And what was the worst Sam could do? He was a pansy when it came to fights against Dean. Dean had knocked him down plenty of times when they were younger to know Sam didn’t like to start fights if he didn’t have to. 

“You know, Cas and I...” He tapped his fingers on his glass. “We’re doin more than just travelin together.” 

“I know," Sam said, frowning. "The robberies.” 

“No, um.” _Spit it out, spit it out._ But he couldn’t even form the words. “Seems Cas and I got the same vice,” he ventured. 

Sam stared at him at him blankly. _For the love of all things holy._ How were he and Sam even related? No way Sam was this innocent; he'd never even considered the thought? 

“Shit, Sam, I gotta draw you a picture?” Then, forcing the words out, “We’ve been fucking.” 

Sam’s eyes widened. “Oh!” He coughed, shifted, seemed about to rise, then stayed sitting. “Fuck, I didn’t know, you… um.” He drank from his glass and looked away. 

“Pull yourself together, Sammy, you’re actin like a virgin on her weddin night.” Dean realized he was clenching his glass in his hand. His fingers cramped as he relaxed his grip. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I just...” Pulling his eyes from the floor, Sam studied him and Dean reddened. 

“What?” he demanded. He was already regretting telling Sam. Too many complicated questions were sure to follow. 

“I just would’ve never guessed. The way you've always acted, and you were always jibing me when we were younger, calling me queer—” 

“Just tryin to distract you, I guess,” Dean said, trying to play it off as a joke. He supposed he should be relieved that he’d hidden it so well when younger, his attraction to men. He’d thought surely Sam had noticed, or that his pa had hinted. Rather than relief, though, there was only a sick feeling in his stomach. He tried to drown it in more whiskey. 

“Well.” Sam’s face was red. He ran his thumb over the rim of his glass. “Cas, huh? Well, I’m glad you have someone you can talk to.” 

Dean frowned, looked up at him. “What do you mean?" _T_ _alk?_ Had Sam not heard him clearly? 

“I mean, Cas knew about...” Sam eyed him warily and Dean shook his head, clenching his jaw. 

“I ain’t talkin to Cas about that shit. He found one of my letters from her, thought it’d be funny to bring it up. He’s a fuckin asshole.” 

“Oh.” Sam studied him and Dean drained his glass. He knew that look in Sam’s eyes, the seriousness that meant he was trying to figure something out—the something in this case being the exact nature of Dean and Castiel’s relationship. 

“Never mind,” Dean muttered. “Just thought you might be curious to know. One more reason to call me your screw-up brother.” He cleared his throat, shifted, and the bed creaked. 

“You have to stop saying that. That isn’t what I’m thinking.” 

Dean scoffed. “Sure.” He poured more whiskey into his glass. “You ain’t never been a good liar.” 

“I don’t care, or mind, Dean, really. Not about… this. I mean, I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise, really, with the way people live out here.” Dean bristled. As if he’d fallen into “this” because he lived out here instead of where Sam—refined, rich, educated Sam—lived, entrenched in polite society.. “Did pa know you were, um… ?” 

The question made Dean look up sharply. “I ain’t no queer, Sam.” 

“I know,” Sam said quickly. “I just meant, did he know you, uh…?”

“Yeah, he knew,” Dean answered to save them both from more embarrassment. He tried to say it casually, but even that admission was too heavy with significance. 

Sam nodded slowly. “Right.” He stared down at the glass in his hand. “But, um, _Cas_?” Dean tensed at the way he said Castiel’s name. Sam started to say more, then shook his head. “Forget it, it’s your business, your life.” 

That was a relief. Dean didn’t know any better than Sam why Castiel. It was all a mystery. 

That last bit Sam had said, though, didn’t sit right with him. “You really gonna butt out of this one?” he asked. “You ain’t had any shame in tellin me how to live my life before.” 

“I know, I know. And you’re right.” Sam set his glass down on the tray with a clank. “You’re my older brother, you can take care of yourself.” He drew in a breath. “Can’t say I think hustling and robberies and going after gang members is the smartest route, but to each his own.” 

Dean shook his head at the strain in Sam’s voice, as if each word took incredible effort to get out. The absence of “fucking your male outlaw partner” from Sam’s list wasn’t lost on him. 

“Just, one thing,” Sam said and Dean looked up at him. “Do you want to come back to Stanford with me? I mean, there’s nothing holding you here. You said you and Castiel were going to split up after killing Ishim anyway.”

“Yeah, uh, about that.” He stared down at his glass, swirled the whiskey around so it caught the light. “We’ve got another job planned.” He knew what Sam’s expression was without looking at him and hastened to say, “This is it, Sam. This is the last one.”

“Do I even want to know?”

Dean shook his head and Sam sighed. “Well, then.” Dean could tell he was resisting against a hundred other arguments and complaints, but he only said, “Then will you consider coming to Stanford after this… job? It’s a growing town, plenty of opportunities. Or plenty of rich folk in the gambling halls, if that’s the way you want to earn your money.” He tried to smile at Dean and Dean felt a pull in his chest at the way Sam was trying so hard to connect with him. 

His first instinct was to shake his head, tell Sam there was no way in hell, but instead, he said, “Alright.” 

“Yeah? You’ll—” 

“I’ll think about it. Gotten tired of this area anyway.”

Sam grinned. “You can bring Cas along—” 

“No, Sam, shit.” Dean reddened. “We’re just fuckin, that’s it. There ain’t nothin more to it. Soon as this robbery’s over, we’re partin ways for good.” 

“Oh. Of course. Right.” He nodded. “Probably wouldn’t be a smart idea anyway.” 

“No, it wouldn’t,” Dean agreed. Then, though he didn’t want to bring it up but couldn’t resist asking, he blurted out, “Why did you care so much, the other day? Why would it matter to you if I told Cas about Lisa?”

“I guess it shouldn’t. Makes sense you’d trust someone else more than me.”

It seemed strange to think that he and Sam used to be close. They couldn’t exactly confide in their father, so they turned to each other. His pa always told him Sam looked up to him. Dean had never believed it. Sam was too intent on doing his own thing, blazing his own trail. When he’d left for college, and then, again, for Stanford, Dean had figured they’d never be close again. Maybe that had been a foolhardy, hasty assumption. Maybe Sam hadn’t been pushing him away after all; maybe Dean had done it for him.

“Doesn’t mean I trust him more than you," Dean tried. "I mean, if I did talk about Lisa. Which I don’t.” He waved his hand. “Point is, I know you were only tryin to help, back in Lawrence.” The word “sorry” was too difficult to force out, so he settled on, “I didn’t mean it, those threats. Don’t mean I want to talk about her, though,” he added quickly.

“I know.” Sam gave him a weak smile. “No need to relive the past. What’s done is done, right? You have the opportunity for a new life now.”

A new life. The words sounded so confident, so hopeful. Too much so. At one time, Dean had thought a new life meant Lisa. A home, a family. He didn’t know what a new life meant now. 

Still, he raised his glass. “To a new life.”

When he said goodnight and left Sam’s room, he glanced down the hallway to Castiel’s room. He stood in the hallway for a good minute, staring at the closed door, the faint light seeping out along the floorboards, then turned and went to his own room. 

He tried to tell himself it was because he couldn’t risk Sam finding out. Yes, Sam knew now about him and Castiel, but that didn’t change anything. If anything, it meant he and Castiel had to keep things even more under wraps. Now that Sam knew, he’d interpret anything as a sign, and heaven forbid he read more into Dean and Castiel’s relationship than there was. And Dean didn’t want him finding ways to prove to himself that Dean was changed. The ship had probably sailed with that one, though; if Sam didn’t understand him before, Dean sure as hell wasn’t going to feel any less a stranger now. 

Still, he couldn’t help feel a pang of regret as he shut his bedroom door. Shucking off his vest and shirt, he thought of his and Castiel’s conversation the night before killing Ishim and his partners. Castiel’s story about leaving home with Jimmy. Dean’s own reckless admissions of his father, of Lisa. He knew now why he didn’t regret telling Castiel those things: he knew Castiel wasn’t going to throw them back in his face, use them as ammunition for insults. Dean didn’t know when their relationship had changed so much to make that true.

Turning down the lamp, he got in bed. He’d never thought he and Castiel would have so much in common. Two men, traveling alone, screwing up their lives because it seemed life didn’t give them any other choice. Strange solidarity. With the kinds of things they had in common, staying away from each other was probably the kindest thing they could do. 

•◊•◊•◊•

The next morning, Dean made sure Sam saw him coming out of his own room, then waited until Sam went downstairs with his bag before knocking on Castiel’s door. 

“Come in,” came Castiel’s muffled voice and Dean entered. Castiel was pulling on his suspenders and he glanced up at Dean. The cut across his left temple had faded into a thin line, and his face was clean-shaven—he must’ve shaved last night, Dean thought. He couldn’t decide whether he liked Castiel better with facial hair or not. Not that it mattered in the slightest. He shook himself from his thoughts.

“Sam knows,” he said without preamble. “About us. I told him.” 

“Alright,” Castiel said slowly. He picked up his coat from the bed. 

“Occurred to me too late you might’ve wanted a say in the matter.” Castiel didn’t deserve the consideration Dean was giving him, but maybe Dean was trying to make up for leaving him hanging the night before. 

Castiel shrugged. “Don’t matter one way or another to me. He’s your brother.” Tilting his head a little, he looked at Dean. “How’d he take it?” 

“Well as he could’ve, I reckon. Didn’t say much.” 

Nodding, Castiel pulled on his coat. Dean waited to be chided for his absence the night prior. He had a ready excuse—he’d never said he’d come over, Castiel had never asked him to, it’d only been assumed, and why had it been assumed anyway? There was no reason Dean couldn’t just go to the whorehouse down the street, no reason he should go to Castiel. 

“Where is…?” Castiel looked in his bag, then around the room. 

Spotting Castiel’s money pouch on the bed, Dean picked it up. “Here.” The pouch was surprisingly light. “Where’s the rest of your money?”

Castiel tucked the pouch into his bag. “That’s all of it.” Before Dean could ask how that could be the case, Castiel picked up his bag and headed out the door. “Gotta say, I would’ve thought Sam would make more of a fuss.” 

“Same here.” Dean followed him down the hallway. “But this doesn’t change nothin, you understand? Just because he knows—” 

“What, you think I’m gonna do something in front of him?" Castiel snorted. "I’m not an idiot, Dean. Just because he didn’t ‘say much’ when you told him doesn’t mean he’s accepting of it.” 

“Right, well, that’s what I meant. Good to see we’re on the same page.” 

They dropped the conversation as they entered the foyer where Sam was waiting. But as they walked to the livery where they’d put up their horses, Dean almost asked Castiel if he was angry at him for not showing up last night. But he knew the kind of response he’d get: _you think I give a shit about you, whether you show up or not?_

Or maybe that was only the response he would’ve gotten a few weeks ago. Too much had changed between them since. What if everything was different?

Maybe Castiel himself had gone to the whorehouse, though Dean wasn't sure he'd find anyone there to suit his needs. Not that Dean would care if he did. It didn’t matter one way or another to him. He was glad Castiel didn’t seem to care that he hadn’t shown up. Better that they both knew where they stood; he hoped they were on the same page about that too. 

•◊•◊•◊•

“This is it,” Dean announced, reining in his horse at the cabin. Its shadow stretched long into the yard, the dim lighting doing little to disguise its ramshackle appearance. He added, seeing Sam frown at the disarray before him, “It’s not so bad.”

Sam nodded as he looked around. “I'll take your word for it. Well," he adjusted his hat against the sun's piercing rays, "suppose I should be off to reach Evanston by nightfall. I’ll catch a train tomorrow morning.” He turned his horse and extended his hand to Castiel. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” 

“You too,” Castiel said, shaking his hand. “Thanks for your help.” 

“No problem.” Sam looked at Dean. “Goodbye, Dean. Remember what you said.” 

“I will.” 

Sam smiled and stuck out his hand. Dean took it. “See you soon, then, right?” Dean nodded and Sam let go of his hand. “Stay safe and, um, good luck, I guess. Don’t make me read about you in the papers.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. “I’ll try my best.”

With a final wave, Sam rode off. Dean watched him disappear into the trees and realized he was actually going to miss having his brother around. He was starting to suspect that he’d been missing him all along.

“What’d he mean by that?” Castiel asked, pulling Dean from his thoughts. “‘Remember what you said’?” 

Dean dismounted. “I told Sam I’d think about visitin him in Stanford.” 

“Have you decided?” Castiel swung off Halo and led him to the stable after Dean. 

“May as well go. Stanford is as good a place as any to spend my money.” 

“Well, not long now before you’re rolling in it. A week and we’ll be richer than anyone else for miles.” 

“Hope so.” Dean pulled his saddle off Dusty and hung it on the wall. He realized belatedly that he and Castiel would be holed up in this cabin for nearly a week together. 

As if reading Dean's mind, Castiel pulled his saddlebags off Halo and dropped them to the ground where they clunked. “Good thing we bought plenty of supplies.” 

•◊•◊•◊•

The rest of the evening they spent taking care of Dusty and Halo, cooking dinner, eating, making small talk. After days of Sam’s presence as a buffer between them, it seemed strange to return to just the two of them. And a little comforting in its familiarity, if Dean was honest with himself. Which he didn’t want to be.

They sat at the table after eating, the front door open to reveal the dusky yard. Castiel’s chair was angled a little from the table, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He’d methodically rolled a cigarette and lit it, sat now looking out at the yard as he smoked. His hair looked darker in the low light, his expression inscrutable. Dean wondered what was going through his mind. 

Looking away, he rotated his cup on the table. _I could say I’m tired,_ he thought, _say it’s been a long day._ It wasn’t that he didn’t want Castiel, only… he wasn’t sure. He felt he’d made a mistake, telling Sam about them as if “they” were something worth talking about, getting trapped in this damn cabin with Castiel once again, agreeing to another robbery. 

“Alright,” Castiel said, the scrape of his chair on the dirt floor making Dean start. He looked up to see Castiel getting to his feet. “I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.” 

_That’s my excuse, motherfucker._ He nodded and stood. “Right.” 

In the bedroom, Castiel stripped down to his undergarments and Dean did the same, throwing his clothes onto his bags. They got in bed and Castiel blew out the light and it was dark. 

Crickets chirped outside and Dean’s hand brushed Castiel’s. He pulled it away, thumbed at the bandaging around his side, his pulse quickening.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness, which wasn’t so absolute as it had seemed. He felt Castiel shift against his arm, then Castiel’s hands were on his chest, his face, and they were kissing, no words spoken. It was such an easy thing to fall back into, being together. Any earlier apprehension faded away at the press of Castiel’s lips to his.

Their legs tangled together under the sheets, and Dean inhaled sharply when Castiel’s elbow nudged his wound. “Sorry,” Castiel said, pulling away, and Dean pushed himself up to sit. 

“It’s fine.” He swung his legs off the bed and heard Castiel sit up. 

“Where’re you going?” 

He could only discern the outline of Castiel’s face when he turned to look at him. “Remember what I promised you?” He got off the bed and groped for the lantern, managed to turn it down low. 

“Thought you forgot,” Castiel said. Dean heard the smile in his voice. “That, or didn’t want to follow through.” 

“Nope.” Dean rooted through his saddlebags and glanced up at Castiel. He was sitting cross-legged in bed watching him. A pang ran through him, wondering how late Castiel had stayed up waiting for him at the hotel. 

Finding the vaseline and tossing the jar onto the mattress, Dean got back in bed. “Are you sure?” Castiel asked, sliding back to let Dean straddle his lap. He touched the bandaging around Dean’s waist lightly. 

“I’m fine, Cas, it barely hurts anymore.” 

“I’m sure,” Castiel said wryly. But he took Dean’s face in his hands and pulled him down to kiss him. Dean pressed his hands to the wall behind Castiel’s head, coaxed his way into Castiel’s mouth. Grabbing Dean’s ass, Castiel slid him up further onto his lap, and Dean took the invitation to grind his hips against Castiel’s.

Castiel grunted and pulled back from Dean slightly. “Can we take our time?” he asked.

Dean nodded and closed the distance between them again. Castiel kissed him back soundly, then dipped his head to kiss below Dean’s jaw. His hands gripped at Dean’s shoulder blades, his waist as he scraped his teeth along Dean’s neck, sucked marks into his skin. Dean resisted rutting against him again, tilted his head back to expose his skin to Castiel’s mouth. 

He jerked when Castiel slipped a hand down between them. A sound too close to a whine rose in his throat as Castiel rubbed against his clothed cock and balls, and Castiel laughed. In retaliation, Dean pinched his nipple, drawing an indignant yelp from him. Their mouths met again, Dean parting his lips to Castiel’s tongue, rolling his hips forward against Castiel’s hand. 

He’d missed this. The press of Castiel’s lips to his, the panted breaths Castiel took, the way his fingers teased him. He never could get enough of it in Evanston, didn’t know how he was supposed to get enough of it now in the days they had left. 

_Don’t think that,_ he warned himself, even as he pressed a kiss under Castiel’s earlobe, breathed in the campfire smoke scent of his hair.

Castiel helped him pull off his underwear, then pulled off his own, and Dean settled onto his lap again, waiting as Castiel dipped a finger into the vaseline. He raised his hips, watching Castiel bring his hand between his thighs. His muscles clenched despite himself when Castiel swiped at his rim, then Castiel pushed his finger inside and Dean groaned, dug his fingers into Castiel’s shoulder. He slid one hand up along Castiel’s neck, his thumb under his jaw. He could feel Castiel’s heartbeat thudding under his skin and he ducked his head to kiss the pulse. 

Castiel added another finger, stretching him further, and Dean moaned, “Cas,” pressed Castiel’s name to his skin. Feather light touches ran across his body, almost lost in the waves of pleasure, as Castiel kissed and nipped at his shoulders and neck and ran his free hand over Dean’s thigh. 

Dean tilted Castiel’s head up to kiss him. “God, Cas,” he panted against his mouth, “you’re so good, fuck—” He cut himself off before he started babbling and tugged on Castiel’s hair to lean his head back and bite lightly at his neck, taste the salt of his sweat on his tongue. 

“A compliment from Dean Winchester?” Castiel teased, the vibrations of his voice thrumming under Dean’s mouth. His one hand slid up to Dean’s shoulder blades, drawing him in so their chests bumped against each other, their cocks trapped against their stomachs, the slight pressure maddening. 

“Shuddup,” Dean said, the tips of his ears heating in embarrassment. He kissed Castiel to that end, licking his way into his smile. 

His legs were trembling before too long, and he grabbed Castiel’s arm to stop him before he got off just by fucking himself on Castiel’s fingers. “Lay back,” he said, and Castiel did so, slicking and pumping his cock as Dean moved to straddle his hips. 

His hands moved to Dean’s waist and Dean wrapped his hand around the base of Castiel’s cock. Slowly, he lowered himself onto it, glancing up to see Castiel biting his lip hard, watching him. Castiel’s eyes flickered up to his and Dean grinned a little. “You alright there, Cas?” 

Castiel nodded, his hands gently guiding him down, and Dean let out a shaky breath when he’d taken all of Castiel’s length inside. He braced himself on the bed, hands on either side of Castiel’s chest, then started fucking himself on Castiel’s cock. 

The sounds Castiel made, choked off grunts and swears, the slide of his hands from Dean’s hips to his chest to his back, made Dean’s body burn like his veins held fire. He focused on Castiel’s collarbone, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the veins in his neck. 

“Dean,” Castiel moaned, then repeated, his name tumbling over itself, and Dean's cock twitched, reminded him of its aching. 

He grabbed Castiel’s hand and brought it to his cock, swearing under his breath as Castiel palmed him. “Fuck, Cas.” He clenched his jaw to stop Castiel’s name from spilling out from him over and over. 

He lost track of everything, focused on reaching his and Castiel’s release, every touch and every whisper of his name a blur. If his injured side was hurting, he couldn’t distinguish the burning from the waves of sensations coursing through him. 

Castiel thrust his hips up and Dean swore, his legs shaking. He ran a hand over Castiel’s chest and quickened his pace, felt Castiel’s hips jerk up into his. “There you go, Cas, come on.” 

“Dean, Dean.” Castiel touched his jaw and Dean met his eyes. His cock jumped in Castiel’s hand at the sight of Castiel’s eyes blown out, his lips parted, his tongue wetting them before he spoke again, “Tell me you love me.” 

Dean startled, breaking his even thrust onto Castiel’s cock, and Castiel reached up to grip the back of his neck, eyes searching his. “Please say you love me.’” 

A flush spread across Dean’s face and with one hand he grabbed Castiel’s hands from his neck, pulled them away. Castiel blinked and Dean’s chest tightened at the way his face crumpled. 

“I love you,” he said without thinking. Bringing one of Castiel’s hands to his lips, he kissed his fingers—an act of tenderness that surprised even him. “I love you, I love you,” the words spilled out of him as he resumed sliding up and down Castiel’s cock. 

Castiel moaned and Dean grabbed his cock since it seemed Castiel had forgotten what he was doing. He pumped himself until Castiel resumed jacking him off, then braced himself on the bed again with both hands as he did away with quick, shallow thrusts for deep, hard ones, his muscles tensing, his back curling. 

From Castiel’s stuttered panting and his tight grip on his arm, he knew Castiel was also close. His eyes were screwed shut, which was a relief because Dean didn’t think he could gaze into them again, didn’t want to see what emotion they held. All the same, a temptation rose in him to say the words again, the words he didn’t mean, _I love you_ , and see the way they undid Castiel. 

“Cas,” he settled on, shifting a hand closer to Castiel’s body, moving his thumb along Castiel’s ribs. “Come on, darlin, come on.” 

With a moan, Castiel thrust up into him. Instantaneously, a piercing relief and bliss overwhelmed Dean’s senses and he came into Castiel’s hand with a sound ripped from his throat.

Castiel gasped and Dean opened his eyes. He gazed, his head light, at the lines of Castiel’s throat as Castiel tilted his head back on the pillow with pleasure from his own orgasm.

When Castiel had stilled under him and his own aftershocks had faded, Dean pulled off of him and collapsed onto the bed, chest heaving. He would’ve let out a low swear, made some sort of exclamation, if he could form words or any rational thought. He swallowed and pushed a hand through his hair, pressed the base of his palm to his forehead.

Castiel swore quietly under his breath and, turning his head, Dean looked at him, at the shuddering rise and fall of his chest, at his disheveled hair dark against the white pillow. Without meaning to, he reached out and traced Castiel’s ear, pushing aside a lock of hair.

Castiel looked at him. Dean shifted, brought his hand to the back of Castiel’s head, and kissed him for as long as he could manage before breaking apart for a breath. Castiel touched his cheek, then something flickered across his face and he pulled away. 

_Tell me you love me._

Dean reddened, not just in sympathy embarrassment for Castiel, but in shame for how easily the words had come out of himself. 

He pushed himself up to sit, though all he wanted was to give in to the deep exhaustion drawing him down into the mattress. “I’ll grab water,” he said and Castiel nodded. 

When he returned to the room, Castiel lay on his side, staring at the opposite wall. He glanced at Dean, then away when Dean sat heavily on the bed. Dipping a rag into the half-filled bucket he had found in the kitchen, Dean cleaned himself up. His wound was pulsing under the bandaging, but he hardly registered the discomfort.

Rinsing the rag off, he held it out to Castiel, water droplets dripping onto the blankets. Castiel roused himself, then Dean changed his mind and put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, pushed him back gently. 

“I got it,” he said, running the rag over Castiel’s thigh. 

“No, Dean.” Castiel sat up hurriedly and took the rag from him. In the low light, Dean could see Castiel’s face was red. 

He nodded and slid back further into bed. Laying down, he stared up at the ceiling, his stomach rising in slow breaths under his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said quietly, after a time.

Dean looked over at him. “Don’t know what you’re talkin about, nothin to be sorry about.” Castiel met his eyes and Dean held his gaze, hoping it conveyed enough. _Don’t talk about what we said ever again, don’t mention it, don’t speak of it._

Castiel seemed to catch Dean’s meaning because he ducked his head. Dropping the rag into the bucket, he turned off the lamp and lay down. 

They lay there in the dark, silent. Then Castiel rolled over onto his side to face away from him, and it was too much to think about so Dean let his exhaustion overwhelm him, push away his thoughts, and draw him into sleep.


	15. One Drink

_Guess it was somethin' I shouldn't have done_

_Guess I regret it now_

_Ever since I was a kid_

_Tryin' to keep my temper down is like_

_Chasin' wild horses, chasin' wild horses_

_Left my home, left my friends_

_I didn't say goodbye_

_Chasin' Wild Horses - Bruce Springsteen_

•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•

His gunshot wound was aching, but Dean would be damned before he spent the whole day lounging around the cabin with Castiel, both of them trying to avoid each other’s eyes. So, he left early in the morning to go hunting instead, missed a few rabbits and birds on purpose just to waste time, finally bagged a rabbit in the afternoon, and took his time returning to the cabin though being in the saddle wasn’t making his ribs throb any less. 

Castiel was cleaning out the stable when he returned, but Dean didn’t say anything to him, just brought Dusty over, then went inside to cook the rabbit meat. When dinner was ready, he stalled before calling Castiel over, then chided himself for his hesitation. What was he going to do? Avoid Castiel for the rest of the week? Far as he was concerned, last night never even happened. Anyway, Castiel should be the one embarrassed, not him. 

“Cas, supper’s on,” he called from the doorway and saw Castiel straighten from where he was fixing a hole in the stable wall. He went back inside and in a bit, Castiel came into the kitchen, stomping dirt off his boots in the doorway. 

“What’re you fixin up the stable for?” Dean asked, sitting down at the table. 

Castiel shrugged. “Just needed something to do.” He sat across from Dean and they ate the rest of their meal in silence. 

_Damn you_ , Dean thought, glancing at Castiel over the table. How the hell was he ever going to be able to get in bed with Castiel again after the gaffe he’d made last night? 

Pushing his plate aside, he stood and grabbed the bottle of whiskey stowed on the shelf, then a cup. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed another one. 

“I don’t want any,” Castiel said when Dean sat down and started pouring whiskey into both cups. 

“One drink ain’t gonna kill you, Cas.” Dean slid over a cup, some of the liquor splashing out over the side. “You look like you could use one anyway.”

Castiel stared at the cup for a long moment, then picked it up. 

“Can’t wait to never have to worry about money again,” Dean said. The shadows were long in the doorway, crickets loud in the night. His head muzzy, he reached over the table for the whiskey bottle, saw it was half empty.

“That’s not how it works,” Castiel said, forearms on the table, slouched over. “Even if we manage to rob every last cent, it’ll never be enough, ‘specially with how you like to spend it.”

Dean ignored the jab. “So, what, you gonna keep robbin stagecoaches ‘till the day you drop?”

Castiel shook his head, then pressed a hand to his forehead. “Nope. This is it for me.” 

Dean spilled some whiskey on the table and swore, then realized what Castiel had said. “Really? One last robbery and you’re gonna live an honest man?” 

Castiel must have heard the sarcasm in his voice, but he only nodded. “Honest as I can manage.” 

“Well, good luck with that. I give it a week at most before you go back to your thievin ways.” He took a long drink. “Where you gonna live your honest life? Still plannin to hightail it to Mexico?” 

“Don’t know.” Sitting up straighter, Castiel lifted his cup. “Maybe I’ll go to the coast. Haven’t seen the ocean yet. I just want something, anything new.”

Dean remembered how Sam had said Castiel could come along to Stanford as well. Strange notion. “Well, I don’t care where I end up,” he said, “long as it’s as far from your ass as I can get. You’ve caused me more grief than Sam and my pa combined.” Castiel smiled. “Why don’t you head back home, where you grew up?”

His smile fading, Castiel shook his head. “It’s not my home anymore. There’s nothing for me there.”

Before Dean could decide whether it was wise, the words slipped out. “You really were in love with him, weren’t you?” 

Castiel looked away quickly. Dean thought he wouldn’t answer, but, staring down at his cup, he replied, “Yes,” confirming Dean’s suspicion that he’d been thinking of Jimmy all day. 

Leaning back in his chair, stretching his legs out, Dean admitted, “I found that photo. Of you and him.” 

Castiel slowly raised his head. “You did?” 

“You know, you’re real sentimental for someone who gave me such a hard time about the letters I carry.” 

“Reckon so.” Castiel drank from his cup. He was taking it pretty well, Dean’s admission that he’d snooped through Castiel’s belongings. 

Dean waited for more, waited for the insult, the jab, but Castiel seemed content to remain silent. “Just seems odd,” he pressed, “you bein in some kinda relationship, bein so close to someone. Don’t make sense.” 

It was cruel, the way he kept pressing Castiel to speak of Jimmy. Castiel narrowed his eyes at him and Dean tensed, thinking he’d crossed the line and was gonna get punched, but Castiel only said, “You ever been in love, Dean Winchester?” 

Dean scoffed. Castiel only watched him, his eyes boring into him, making Dean’s face heat. “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?” he deflected. Leaning forward, he motioned for Castiel to slide him his cup. 

“You trying to get me drunk?” Castiel asked, sounding amused. He pushed it over and Dean refilled it. 

“You’re already drunk.” Dean shoved back the cup. “You’re already askin stupid questions.” 

“Guess you’re right.” He held up his cup and looked at it disinterestedly. “Now I remember why I quit drinking this shit.” Shrugging, he drank from it. 

“Why did you quit?” 

Castiel eyed him. “Now who’s asking the stupid questions? Reckoned I’d live a lot longer if I dropped the habit. Apparently, I run my mouth when I’m drunk.” 

“Mostly about Jimmy.” Dean knew he was treading dangerous ground, but something was building in his chest, an emotion he couldn’t identify. He wanted Castiel to get angry, wanted Castiel to chuck his cup at his head and curse him out, and then he’d know where they stood and this strange rising emotion would drown in his anger and bitterness. 

“Drinking didn’t make me forget him. Only made it hurt worse.”

This was not the way Dean wanted this conversation to go. Instead of angry, Castiel was getting sappy and soft. He corked the bottle, deciding they’d had enough for the night, but Castiel wasn’t done.

“I’m so tired, Dean.” Setting his cup down, Castiel clasped his hands on the table. “It don’t make sense that I was ever in love, you’re right. But I was. And then Jimmy died and left me alone. Now what? I steal, I spend the money I took, I keep going from town to town, trying not to make too many enemies, and there’s just no point to it all.” 

“Alright, shut up. You’re scarin me.” He meant it too. “You think you’re tired? We’re all tired.” 

“You saw that photo,” Castiel said, ignoring him. “I don’t hardly recognize myself in it.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up, then looked at Dean. “This is the longest amounta time I’ve spent with one person since Jimmy died. The gang doesn’t count, felt more alone with them than anything. Never thought I’d last this long traveling with you.” 

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “I ain’t gonna be some sorta goddamn replacement for Jimmy—” 

“No, no, that isn’t it. Far from it. You and Jimmy are as different as night and day.” 

“Am I…” He hadn’t known he had the question before he asked it, “Am I the first man you’ve been with since Jimmy?”

Castiel studied him and Dean felt his face warm. “No,” he said. 

Dean nodded, feeling relieved though he hardly knew why. An uneasy silence spread between them, then Castiel said, “That was fucked up, what I told you to say last night—” 

Dean shook his head. “You don’t have to—” 

“We’re both thinking it, aren’t we?” Castiel exclaimed fiercely. “Don’t know what the hell I was thinking—I wasn’t thinking. I know you only said it because you were pitying me, I don’t need your damn pity, I’m just a goddamn fool… fuck.” He ran his hands over his face and stared down at the table, fingers laced behind his head. 

Dean didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t want to continue this line of conversation anymore, so he pushed back his chair and stood. “Pull yourself together, Cas.” 

“I can’t believe you’ve hung around for so long,” Castiel said, his voice echoey from speaking to the table. “Don’t know how you can stand it. You aren’t near a fool as I am.” 

“Doubt that.” Dean drained his cup. Here he was, arguing with a drunk man. No sense in it. He should’ve known what he’d be getting himself into, giving Castiel liquor. 

Slowly, Castiel lifted his head and gave him a small smile. “You’re not so bad, Winchester.” 

“Shuddup, Cas.” Dean went to Castiel’s chair to grab his cup. 

“You really do still hate me, don’t you?” Castiel asked, craning his neck back to look at him. Dean noticed a red mark on his skin, courtesy of himself, a reminder of last night. 

“Only when you’re bein a pain in the ass,” he answered and swatted him on the shoulder. “So, most of the time, yes.” 

Castiel looked thoughtful. “Guess that’s some sorta improvement.” He stood, rocking a little unsteadily on his feet. “You know, Dean, after this robbery—” 

“No.” Dean set the cups down in the washbucket hard. 

“I know you said you’re going to Stanford, but afterwards, when you come back. I don’t gotta run from Ishim anymore. We can get some work on a ranch together, on some cattle drive, I don’t know—” 

“Cas, I said, no.” He had to fight to keep his voice down. “We said this robbery and then we’re done. I ain’t makin this,” he motioned between them, not sure what _this_ really meant, “some fuckin permanent thing.” 

Castiel stared at him and Dean waited for him to get angry. Then Castiel laughed. “You’re right. I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.” He sat back on the table heavily and it creaked. “That would never work, we’d kill each other within a week.” 

Dean tried to relax. Castiel was just drunk. “You’re so goddamn annoyin.” 

He could feel Castiel’s eyes on him as he put the whiskey bottle back on the shelf. “You never answered my question. You mean to tell me you’ve never been in love?” 

Dean dropped his hands in exasperation and turned around to look at him. “Will you quit it? Why’re you so interested anyway?” 

“Because I think you’re hiding something.” There Castiel went again with that serious, probing look. “Humor me.” 

“There ain’t no point in talkin about her.” Castiel was watching him intently and Dean grew angrier. “We were engaged, alright? So, yeah, reckon I must’ve loved her. Not enough, though.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means… I was real wild and Lisa tried to reform me, but it didn’t work, because that’ll never work, can’t be done. Everyone knew it, everyone said I wasn’t good enough for her.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

“It is, I knew it.” He took a deep breath and crossed his arms. “Then, when pa got himself killed, I lost my head a bit, left town for a while. Lisa, she waited for me, like a goddamn idiot. She was so fuckin stubborn. And I went back to her because I was a fuckin fool. I knew I wasn’t any good for her and I still went back. And sure enough, I couldn’t do it. So, she broke things off. Sam was livin with me at the time, tryin to take care of me, but I was too stupid to care.” 

Turning back to the shelf, he snatched up the bottle of whiskey and another cup and poured another finger. His words were leaving an awful taste in his mouth. “That’s the story. Don’t think it even counts to say I was in love, ‘least not the kind you and Jimmy had. I’m too goddamn selfish for that.” He tried to play it off as a joke, but, God, that sounded pathetic. 

Castiel nodded slowly. “Sounds like you regret it plenty.” 

“'Course I do.” That was an easy admission. “Not the fact that it ended, I always knew I was pushing my luck, knew Lisa would leave my ass eventually. What I shouldn’t have done was stick around for so long. I shoulda just manned up and left. But, no, I had to be a dick to her. Make it so she had no choice but to break things off.” 

The whiskey burned his throat, simmered in his stomach. He felt breathless from sharing so much. Things he’d never admitted to anyone. Let Castiel have it, see what he’d do with it. Throw it back in his face, or not. Dean really didn’t care anymore. He knew what Castiel meant; he was so goddamn tired.

Castiel frowned. “You really think she woulda left you regardless?”

“‘Course,” Dean shrugged. “Take my pa—all I ever did was obey him, chase after him. And for what? He didn’t give a shit about me, he was always packin up and leavin. And then he died and left me alone for good. After that, I saw there was no point to it all.”

“You don’t know that Lisa would’ve been the same as your pa. You don’t know that she would’ve left you for no fault of your own.”

“You’re soundin too much like Sam right now.” 

“Maybe you can go back to her.”

He thought of the letters in his pack, his dreams, and shook his head. “Even if she would take me back, no. I’d only ruin everythin again. We ain’t fit for each other. Besides, I don’t feel the same way I used to feel about her.” He didn’t know when that had happened, when he’d stopped wanting her.

Crossing his ams, gripping the cup in his hand, he steadied himself. “But you, if Jimmy was alive, you’d be with him in a heartbeat.” It wasn’t a question, so he didn’t know why he needed an answer. 

Castiel nodded, and Dean caught the shine in his eyes. _Fuck,_ he regretted bringing it up. “But he’s gone, for good.” Castiel pushed his shoulders back. “That’s the way it is.” 

“Aren’t you sensible.” Dean tried to take a deep breath, but his chest felt too tight. 

“Have to be. Can’t come undone, isn’t that what you said?” 

Dean frowned, then remembered standing next to Castiel at the river, seeing the gleam in Castiel’s eyes as he talked about Jimmy. “Cas, don’t ever take advice from me. I’m the last person you should be listenin to.”

“Well, reckon you were right.” Castiel lifted his necklace from inside his shirt and frowned at it. “I’ve been carrying around so much for so long. Tried to undo myself plenty after he died. Joined Ishim’s gang. Thought if I was going to steal for a living, didn’t have to do it alone. But I couldn’t stand being with them. Felt… guilty, I reckon. Felt like I was doing Jimmy a disservice for riding with anyone else. Not that I was very close with any of those motherfuckers.” 

Dean didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know what Castiel wanted to hear. 

Castiel dropped his necklace back onto his chest. “So, I betrayed them. It’s my fault Bartholomew hung.”

“I’m sure he deserved it.”

“Well, I can’t say I liked him very much. But it wasn’t right, the way it happened. I’m not like that, you know, disloyal. When I heard Bartholomew died because of me, I figured I needed to get my life in order.” He laughed. “You know how that turned out. Broke and starving, miserable as hell.”

“Well. You woulda never met me if it wasn’t for all that shit.” He meant it as a joke, but it still sounded woefully inadequate. As if he was anything more than a soon-to-be-forgotten acquaintance, as if he could offer anything in the slightest way to make up for all the shit Castiel had been through. 

But Castiel smiled. “No, reckon not.” He straightened from the table and pointed at him. “And you, Dean Winchester, are a once-in-a-lifetime type of person. Very original.” 

Feeling his face heat, Dean rolled his eyes. “Alright, enough. You’re babblin now.”

Castiel laughed as he went into the bedroom and Dean shook his head. He ran his hands over his face, digging the heel of his palms into his eyes until he saw spots. He felt shaky and his heart was pounding like he’d been in a fight. He wished he’d been in a fight. This… talking, being all friendly-like with Castiel was exhausting, more exhausting than when they’d been at each other’s throats every second. 

_God,_ Castiel was lucky. He knew how things stood. He’d put to rest the mistakes of his past. He could be free. Well, he’d never be free of Jimmy, but that wasn’t so much a burden. Dean could see it in his eyes when he spoke of Jimmy. Teary, yes, but happy. Castiel said he wasn’t the same person as when he loved Jimmy, but that person wasn’t all gone. There were tiny glimpses of him when Castiel touched Jimmy’s necklace, when he spoke of their happiness—the tiniest glimmer of hope that he could be happy again. Even if it was never fulfilled, it was enough that it was there. 

There wasn’t any hope for Dean. The letters he carried, they weighed him, reminded him of every way he’d screwed up his life. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let himself hope—what would he even hope for? 

_Have you ever been in love?_ Dean had told the truth. He didn’t think he was capable of love. 

Unwillingly, Lisa’s last words to him in her last letter swirled in his mind, long since memorized:

_Dean._

_It took me a long time to write this letter and part of me still thinks I shouldn’t write at all. You made a fool out of me, hurt me deeply._

_We could’ve had a wonderful life together, but I realize now I couldn’t force you into living it. I hope you find a better life without me. I love you, I think, still. So, please don’t come back._

_Lisa_

After everything, for her to say she still loved him… _Damn bitch,_ Dean thought. Disgust at himself curled so deeply inside him he thought he might be sick and he hung his head, clenched the cup in his hand. 

There was more that he couldn’t bring himself to share with Castiel, things he’d done that he didn’t ever think about because what was the use? To choke on more shame? He felt so ashamed already without any prompting.

There was no happiness in remembering his past. If only he’d never gotten tangled up with Lisa in the first place—he regretted enough what he did to wish even that. But that was just the way life worked. Life was full of regrets. There was no use trying to escape it. 

He stared down at the cup in his hand, a shine of whiskey at the bottom, and smiled bitterly. Damned if he wouldn’t try, though. 

•◊•◊•◊•

“What in the blazes are you doing?’ 

Dean looked up from where he was kneeling on the porch, hammering a new board over a splintered, cracked one. Castiel stood in the doorway, blinking in the sunlight, his eyes bleary, hair mussed. He was wearing his shirt untucked from his pants, half-buttoned like he’d thrown it on without looking—Dean frowned. His own shirt, not Castiel’s. 

He grabbed another nail. “Fixin this so neither of us fall through and break an ankle. Found some tools in the stable.” He started hammering again.

“If you don’t quit with that, I’m gonna shoot you.” Castiel leaned on the doorway and shielded his eyes from the sun. “I’m trying to sleep.” 

Ah, the death threats. The familiarity of it nearly made Dean laugh. He looked up at the sky where the sun cast its bright glare over the treetops. “You’re lazin the day away, Cas. It’s nearly noon already.” He resumed hammering the board in place, and Castiel massaged the back of his neck, then swore quietly and straightened. 

“Did you make coffee?” 

“On the stove.” 

Turning to go inside, Castiel paused. “Try not to pull any more stitches—” 

“Cas, for the love...” Dean looked up at him. “Fuck off and let me be.” 

Castiel huffed. "Aren't you pleasant. Asshole.” Flipping Dean off, he retreated into the kitchen.

“That’s my damn shirt you’re wearin,” Dean called. He saw Castiel look down at his shirt, but started hammering away before Castiel could say anything. 

Finishing fixing the porch—what could be remedied, that is—Dean headed inside. “Think I’ll go huntin again,” he announced, going to the stove and pouring himself another cup of coffee. 

“How the fuck are you up and about?” Castiel muttered, his voice muffled. He sat slouched at the table, his head rested on his folded arms, his cup of coffee untouched on the table. 

Dean grabbed the bottle of whiskey and poured some into his coffee. “Last night was nothin, Cas. We hardly drank.” 

Castiel opened one eye to squint at Dean, then groaned and shut it again. “How are you like this?” 

“That’s the thing, Cas. You stopped drinkin and lost your tolerance. The trick is to never quit.” He took a long drink, then tore his eyes from Castiel and studied the floor. Seeing him like this was doing things to his stomach, a twisting, nervous-like sensation filling him. Maybe it was how unguarded Castiel was, the fact he was wearing Dean’s shirt. That only reminded Dean how familiar they’d become around each other, an unpleasant thought. 

“So,” he said, setting his cup on the table. “Since you’re already wearing my damn clothes—not alright, by the way—you can stay here and wash our clothing.” He waited for a response and, when none came, pressed, “Cas?” 

“Mmhm. I’ll do that when I can actually open my eyes.” Castiel buried his face deeper in his arms, in Dean’s shirt, and crossed his bare feet at the ankles. 

Dean rolled his eyes. Passing by Castiel on his way outside, he had the sudden instinct to pat Castiel’s shoulder, press his palm to his back and feel the warmth of his body. 

Shaking his head, he went to the stable for Dusty. 

•◊•◊•◊•

When he returned in the evening, a bird tied to his saddle horn, he was surprised to see Castiel standing outside by the water pump, and wet, dripping clothes draped over the porch and grass. At the tree line, he reined Dusty in and watched as Castiel, shirtless, his hat pushed back from his forehead, finished rinsing a shirt at the pump and wrung it out, looking around for a clear spot to lay it out to dry. 

_Son of a bitch,_ Dean thought. He hadn’t thought Castiel would actually wash their clothes. 

Dismounting, he led Dusty over to him. Castiel glanced up, then crouched down by a bucket and scrubbed at a soggy, soapy article of clothing in the water. 

“So, you finally got your ass up,” Dean said, pulling off his hat and pausing by his side. The grass around the bucket was muddy and matted down, and Castiel’s arms were soapy and dripping to the elbow. 

“Yup.” Castiel pushed back his hat brim with the back of his hand to squint up at Dean. “You catch anything? I’m starving.” 

“Yeah, I got a bird.” There was a smudge of mud on Castiel’s shoulder that Dean considered reaching over and wiping off. “How’re you starvin?” he said instead. “You hardly did any shit today.” 

“The fuck you mean?” Castiel gestured to the yard covered in their drying clothing. “I’ve been scrubbing at clothes that smell like horseshit for the past two hours.” 

Dean smacked him lightly across the head with his hat. “Well hurry up, cowboy, soon as this is done cookin, I’m eatin.” He started leading Dusty away. 

“You’re welcome!” Castiel called after him. 

“Can I ask you something?” Castiel asked as he unbuttoned his shirt. 

“God, what now?” The lamplight in the bedroom made the corners of the room seem to extend into distant points. Movement caught Dean’s eye and he stomped on an insect crawling across the floor. 

Castiel’s shadow shifted on the walls as he folded his shirt and placed it on his bags. “When’d you see the photo I have of me and Jimmy?” 

Sitting down on the bed, Dean shrugged off his shirt to look at the bandage around his ribs. “Back in Evanston.” There was no blood and it looked clean enough. “Thought I’d get back at you for snoopin through my shit.” 

“Suppose that’s fair.” Castiel nudged Dean’s knee with his and Dean slid over so he could get into bed. He kicked his boots off and Castiel asked, “Do you wanna know why I was snooping?” 

“Because you’re a dick?” The words had no heat to them though he tried. 

Castiel snorted. “Because I was trying to see if you had anything worth stealing. Thought you might be lying about being flat-out broke. I was gonna take what you had and run.” 

Dean frowned. He shifted to look at Castiel. “Why _didn’t_ you run?” 

Castiel shrugged. “I saw the letters and thought, now here’s a man who’s hiding a lot more than he’s letting on. Maybe I stayed out of curiosity.” 

“Hmm.” Dean turned away. “Good to know all my problems are so fascinatin.” 

“No, Dean.” Castiel touched his arm. “That’s not what I meant.” 

Dean pulled his arm away. “No, no, it’s true. You always did get a kick out of rilin me up, bringin up things you had no right to talk about.” 

“I shouldn’t have gone through your belongings, or brought up your personal business. It was cruel.” 

Dean let out a laugh. “Really, Cas?” He looked over his shoulder and saw Castiel’s features tighten into a frown. “I’m not buyin it. People don’t change that much. No way you’re sorry now about bein an asshole. I’m not sorry for goin through your pack, seein that photo.” 

“Fine.” Castiel set his jaw and fixed him with a steady look. “But what I’m saying is true. Believe me or not.” 

Shaking his head, Dean rose to his feet. “So, what, your curiosity hasn’t been satisfied yet?” He crossed his arms. “I told you about my pa, you met Sam—that not good enough for you? You’re still here.” 

“It was a bad choice of words,” Castiel answered quietly. “Maybe what I meant...” He trailed off, then looked up at Dean and asked, “You ever think we’re more the same than different?” 

His words made Dean’s blood run cold. “No,” he answered, steadily. “I don’t." 

Castiel studied him, then started pulling up the covers and arranging his pillow. “Just a thought.” 

“Idiot,” Dean muttered. He turned to leave the room. “I’m not goin to bed.”

Their last bottle of whiskey was nearly empty and he swore quietly. The low light emanating from the bedroom faded to dark and it was quiet in the cabin. Dean stepped out onto the porch where moonlight illuminated the yard. Their clothes strewn over the grass looked like uneven puddles. 

Sitting down on the porch, he drank from the bottle. What the fuck was he doing? What was wrong with him? He’d let this, whatever _this_ was, go on for too long with Castiel. Castiel thought he knew so much about him, wanted to talk and pry—and for what? So, they could split up after the robbery and have some nice happy memories of their time together? Is that what Castiel wanted? 

No, he knew what Castiel wanted; the sonuvabitch had said as much, hadn’t he? It didn’t matter that he’d been drunk. He was getting too comfortable around Dean, thought they were partners now, thought that maybe it didn’t have to end. 

The thought clenched Dean’s chest in a vice. It didn’t matter what Castiel wanted—Dean wasn’t going to let it happen. Castiel would get a clue soon enough. He’d see Dean wasn’t worth sticking around with, would hightail it in the opposite direction. 

Of course, Dean realized, watching the whiskey slosh in its bottle, all their fights and curses hadn’t been enough to send Castiel away yet. Maybe the fucker wasn’t so clever or self-preserving as he acted. A memory rose, unbidden and unwanted, of the way Castiel had clutched at him, said, “tell me you love me.” 

Dean’s throat tightened and he kicked at the porch steps. The wood creaked dangerously. Castiel had let his guard down around Dean, and now Dean saw him for who he really was—not the cold, cruel, capricious bastard he’d pretended to be—or maybe yes, but also, a heartsick mess of a man who was trying to take Dean down with him. Dean wasn’t going to let that happen. He’d been just fine without Castiel, and he’d be better off once they parted ways. It couldn’t come soon enough.


	16. Between the Lines

They began the following day with an argument over whether to leave for Bear River City that morning or stay at the cabin for a few more days. 

Dean started it. When he woke, the heavy pull of sleep slipping away to wakefulness, the first sensation he registered was the pad of a fingertip slowly tracing the ridges of his spine.

Shifting, he made to turn over, but Castiel pressed up against his back, slipping a hand around his hip, avoiding the bandaging around Dean's chest. He rested his chin on Dean’s shoulder, his hand hovering over Dean’s groin.

“Morning,” he said, his rough voice even deeper from sleep. That, and his erection pressed against Dean’s backside, was enough to fuel Dean's own arousal. Pushing his hand under Dean’s drawers, Castiel trailed his fingers over his length. Dean stared at the opposite wall, his breathing coming faster as Castiel traced the curves of his ear with his tongue.

He so wanted to sink into the familiar ache, the pull deep down at the base of his stomach, but then he remembered his resolve from the night before. 

Pushing Castiel’s hand aside, he sat up. “We should leave for Bear River today.”

“Today?” Castiel asked, but Dean didn’t bother explaining more, just pulled on his pants and left the room.

When he returned to the bedroom, his arms full with his clothes that had been drying in the yard, Castiel was dressing. Dean bent down to shove the starchy, stiff shirts and pants into his saddlebags. 

“If we go to Bear River now, there’s more chances of making an impression,” Castiel said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “And, knowing you, you’re going to become a familiar face around the saloons and halls.” 

“I’ll switch it up, I’ll go to a different one each day. What I’m not gonna do is sit around here for another three days, playin house.” He hadn’t meant for that last part to slip out. 

“ _Playing house?_ The fuck does that mean?” 

“It means.” Dean sat back on his heels and looked up at Castiel. “I’m goin crazy. There ain’t nothin to do here. If we get caught and shot during the robbery, I don’t want my last days on earth spent holed up in some crap cabin with a, a,” he waved his hand, “jackass like you. You may be content to, I don’t know, wash clothes and clean the stable all day long, but I need out.” 

“Don't know why you’re acting like I enjoy staying here so much.” Castiel leaned down to grab his boots and pull them on. “I have to deal with you every day.” 

“Great, then it’s settled.” Dean stood. The same harsh words, the same jabbing insults, but it felt like a game now. No hatred behind the words, just saying their lines. “We’re going into town.” 

“I didn’t say—” Dean didn’t wait to hear Castiel’s protests before grabbing his bag and going into the kitchen. “Wait, we’re leaving right now?” 

He heard Castiel follow him and rolled his eyes. “No time like the present, Castiel.” There really wasn’t any rational reason to be in a rush, just an antsy feeling rising in Dean’s chest to move, get out. 

Turning, he saw Castiel standing there with one boot on his foot, the other in his hand. “Get dressed, let’s go.” 

“Don’t know why we have to be in such a goddamn hurry,” Castiel complained, going back into the bedroom. 

“I’m outta whiskey,” Dean called and heard Castiel mutter something too low to catch. 

•◊•◊•◊•

They entered Bear River City by late afternoon. Castiel nodded at a building partially painted white, stacks of lumber piled outside, and the doors propped open as men carried furniture inside. Dean squinted in the sun glaring off the sheen of freshly applied paint to read the sign on the exterior. _Union Bank._

“Two rooms,” Dean said to the front desk clerk at the hotel they chose. He saw Castiel frown in his periphery. Let Castiel interpret that as he will, he thought, but Castiel didn’t say anything about it. After stowing their bags in their rooms, they headed to dinner and Dean stared at the menu to avoid Castiel’s eyes. 

Castiel didn’t seem to notice, or care, that he was being taciturn because after ordering, he looked around and said, “My old folks and I stayed at a place like this once.” 

“Hmm.” Dean scraped butter onto the roll on his plate. 

“One of their children passed—my mother’s sister—and we traveled to Chicago for the funeral. Stayed at a hotel along the way. I don’t remember much 'cause I was pretty young. Remember loving the train though. Our horse and wagon always seemed so slow after that.” He paused and Dean felt his eyes on him. 

“What?” he asked, looking up. “Is it my turn now? You want me to start sharin somethin?” 

“No, I wasn’t—” 

“’Cause I ain’t in the mood for this fake, friendly conversation.”

Castiel held up his hands. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, shit.” 

“Actually.” Dean set down his silverware. “If you’re feelin so talkative, I got a question.” Castiel’s face turned guarded as he continued, “I know you ain’t got much money, way less than you should have from our jobs. Don’t see how you could’ve lost it all, less you’ve been goin out to gamblin halls without me, wagerin more than I’ve ever seen you wager.” 

Castiel worried the inside corner of his lip, then nodded slowly. “See you’re still going through my personal belongings.”

Dean shrugged. Sighing, Castiel pulled his hands into his lap. “I don’t keep all the money I make. Every chance I get, I send some of it to Jimmy’s parents.” He paused, as if waiting for Dean’s reaction. 

“What the fuck do you mean?” Dean asked, biting off each word. 

“Jimmy’s pa, the pastor, is retired, and I learned a few years back that he and his wife were in a rough spot, so I started sending money to help them out. Kept it up since then.” 

“Cas, you’re sendin them way too much—what the hell? Two old coots can’t need that much money.” 

Castiel shrugged. “I think they send some to charity, I don’t know. Don’t care how they use it. I just feel,” he took a deep breath, “Just feel that I should help out. I’m the reason Jimmy left. He never would’ve died young if we didn’t run away together. And Jimmy’s pa showed me kindness. Reckon I should try to pay it back.” 

“You feel guilty.” Castiel didn’t reply, but Dean knew it was true by the way his eyes flicked down to the white tablecloth. Dean started to laugh. “You, Castiel? You ain’t got a considerate bone in your body. Why’re you sendin them money, really?” 

Looking back at him, Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “I told you the truth. Can’t be that hard to believe. Seems I’ve shown some kindness to you, helped you with our,” he cast a glance around the dining room at the other patrons, “jobs, doctored up your bullet wound—” 

“You’ve only stuck around with me to make more money. Everythin you do is for yourself, to help you get ahead.” 

Castiel had kept his cool for most of their conversation, but now his eyes were starting to glower. “You know, you’ve always been a dick, but you’re really surpassing yourself today.” 

“Great.” Dean picked up his glass. “Good to know. Because I care.” 

Castiel scoffed, but kept silent for the rest of their tense meal. When they finished eating, Dean pushed his chair back and muttered, “I’m going out.” Before Castiel could speak, he added, “Alone.” 

He didn’t wait around to see how Castiel took that news, just turned on his heel and headed out. Time to get drunk, play a few games of poker. Maybe he would take a break from Castiel for the night. Might be nice to be with a woman, someone he could fuck and forget about, someone he wouldn’t have to wake up next to in the morning. 

His plans quickly derailed when he made the mistake of drinking too much before starting to play. His usual tactic was pretending to be drunker than he was, lulling opponents into false security all the while playing with a clear mind. Tonight, he didn’t have to fake much and ended up losing more than he’d anticipated and only winning back part of it. 

Throughout the night, he kept his eye on a few of the whores roaming the gambling hall. All he had to do was make eye contact, make a gesture, but he found himself making excuses, one more game, another drink. 

The dealer shuffled the cards between games and Dean stared down at his glass. Two more days with Castiel, then he’d be gone. _Good riddance,_ he thought, but the sentiment had no heat behind it. 

Where was the harm, really? he reasoned as he headed back to the hotel, finally deciding to cut his losses and leave before he lost all the money he’d brought with him. Where was the harm in taking advantage of these last days with Castiel? They’d never see each other again afterwards; he’d forget about him soon enough. 

A thought struck him. Years passing, riding into a town and entering a saloon only to see two familiar blue eyes staring back at him from across the bar. 

Dean stomped up the stairs to the hotel's second floor. If that happened—running into Castiel again—he’d turn right back around and leave town. He was lying to himself, he knew it. He knew he and Castiel would fall right back into it. But he didn’t have to admit the truth to himself. 

Feeling pathetic, hating himself with an intensity that turned his stomach, he knocked on the door to Castiel’s room. 

A few seconds—a chance to run away, but Dean stood still—and Castiel opened the door. He seemed only mildly surprised to see Dean and stepped back for him to enter. 

“You make out well tonight?” he asked, closing the door. 

“Nope.” Palming off his hat, Dean sat on the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, then glanced up at Castiel. 

The look in Castiel’s eyes was one he couldn’t place, but it disappeared as Castiel walked over to shut the window. “You’re gonna be as broke as the day I met you, soon enough.” 

Dean scoffed. “Not likely. I’ll go again tomorrow night and win it all back.” He watched Castiel adjust the lamp. “What’ve you been doin? You go to some other gamblin hall?” 

“No, just stayed here, trying to amuse myself since you ditched me.” 

Reaching out, Dean hooked a finger in Castiel’s belt loop and pulled him to stand between his legs. “That mean what I think it means?” 

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Winchester.” Pushing both hands through Dean’s hair, Castiel tilted his head back to look him in the eyes. Dean’s breath hitched a little as Castiel bent his knee, pushed it into his groin. Grabbing Castiel’s shirt, Dean pulled him down to kiss him. 

Castiel let him, let him deepen their kiss, before suddenly pulling back. “Why’re you here, Dean?” he asked, his voice quiet. 

“Ain’t it obvious?” Dean answered just as quietly, though he wanted it to come out harsh. 

Castiel studied him and Dean grabbed his waist, trying to pull him to straddle his lap. “You’re so damn serious. C'mere.” 

Complying, Castiel settled on his lap, his fingers threading through Dean’s hair as they kissed, sliding to his neck, cupping his jaw. Dean didn’t know what he loved better, the way Castiel pressed his lips to his, or the way he touched him as he did so, as if kissing him wasn’t enough, as if he needed more. 

“I was hoping you’d show,” Castiel murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth. The tone of his voice made Dean tense, worry seeping through him at what might be underlying his words. “We only have two days—” 

“Shuddup,” Dean said, kissing him to silence him. Why did Castiel always need more? His fingers worked at the buttons on Castiel’s shirt and, sliding his hands up Castiel’s chest, he noticed something. 

“Where’s your necklace?” He pulled away to look in Castiel’s eyes. He realized he couldn’t remember seeing it on Castiel at all that day, or the day prior—maybe he'd only missed it, maybe Castiel had taken it off for the night. 

Castiel cocked his head to one side. “Why’re you asking—” 

“You lose it or somethin?” He knew that wasn’t the truth, didn’t know why he cared. 

“I took it off. It’s in my bag, with the photo, I thought maybe…” He trailed off and pulled his hands into his lap. “Well, I thought maybe it was time to stop wearing it.” His words dropped slow and soft, and Dean knew something had happened that he wasn’t privy to, some decision, some thought process that Castiel had been wrestling with, working through. 

He pushed Castiel off him and Castiel protested, sliding off onto the bed. “Time to stop wearin it?” Dean asked. “What, you’re movin on? Just like that?” 

“This isn’t something new,” Castiel protested. “It’s been years—and what’s it matter to you? Why do you care?” 

Dean stood. His heart was pounding and he didn’t know why. “I don’t care, I don’t.”

Castiel stared at him. “You said it yourself,” he said slowly, and the confusion on his face infuriated Dean. “We have to move on.” 

“Cas, I was talkin about my pa! A mean sonuvabitch who lived a lot longer than he deserved. You and Jimmy, that’s different! There ain’t no way you’re gonna be able to move on!”

Castiel got to his feet quickly. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said, his voice low and quick. “You don’t know fuck all.” 

He took a step forward and Dean backed up, thinking he was going to get punched. Castiel stopped short. “Dean,” he said quietly, “I’m not gonna hit you.” 

“Do it,” Dean taunted. He’d gotten Castiel angry. That’s what he wanted—or had thought he wanted. He didn’t know anymore. How had he gotten into this mess? Castiel was right, this was none of his business. He shouldn’t care. “Do it, you know you want to, because you know I’m right. You think you’re just gonna forget about him? You’re more stupid than I thought.” 

Castiel’s jaw clenched. “I’m never gonna forget, I know that. But I also know that maybe I’ve been clinging too closely. I gotta still live my life, don’t I?” He was speaking faster, his voice rising, “I've spent so much time alone, I’ve lived like I never thought I would, and I can’t do it anymore—” 

“Alright, shuddup,” Dean interrupted. “Sorry I asked—”

“No, _you_ shut up for one goddamn second and listen!” Castiel’s eyes flashed fierce. “You don’t get to tell me if I can move on or not, you don’t know what all I’ve been through—" His voice broke, and Dean wanted to stop him, wanted to turn and run because he feared what Castiel might say next, but his feet felt rooted to the floor. Castiel rallied himself, pulling his shoulders back. "Jimmy’s dead and he’s gone and that’s the way it is and it’ll always hurt and I’ll always love him, but the way I’ve been living, it ain’t right! How come you get to move on and I don’t?"

Dean started shaking his head, but Castiel kept going, "I wanna stop feeling sorry for myself, hurting myself, feeling alone, being alone! I wanna stop feeling guilty whenever I get close to anyone else! I wanna be able to love someone else without hating myself!” 

Dean froze. Castiel held his gaze, eyes fervent, arms thrown out to the sides. He seemed about to speak again and Dean turned hurriedly, wrenched the door open, and fled the room. 

“Dean! Where’re you going?” Ignoring Castiel's call, Dean ran down the hallway, down the stairs, out of the hotel into the street where he gulped in the cool night air. He stumbled away from the hotel doors to the side of the building and leaned on the wall, shaking. 

The words Castiel had said didn’t ring so loudly in his head as the ones he hadn’t, as the ones Dean had inferred. Crouching down, he held his head in his hands. “Fuck!” he whispered. “Fuck!”

_I wanna stop feeling alone, I wanna be able to love someone else._

When he caught his breath, Dean tried to reason with himself. He’d overreacted. How Castiel grieved, moved on, that was his business. It didn’t have anything to do with him. But why now? Why had Castiel decided to move on _now_? 

He’d said this was the best his life had been in years, had asked Dean to keep traveling with him—

 _No_. Shakily, Dean stood. It didn’t mean anything. He was thinking too highly of himself if he thought Castiel’s decisions had anything to do with him. 

Leaving the alleyway, he hesitated. No way in hell was he going back to Castiel. He felt sick to his stomach, but he headed down the street to the lighted windows of a saloon.

 _I make a mess of everything_ , he thought, boots crunching on the packed dirt. Lost his head over everything. 

He wished Castiel had hit him and cursed him out and told him to get lost. He wished he didn’t know with such certainty that Castiel would still be there in the room next door when he woke. 


	17. Don’t Leave, Don’t Cry

Dean successfully avoided Castiel until mid-afternoon by staying put in his room all day. His head ached dully as he alternated between sitting on his bed, listening to the voices outside his window, and staring at the ceiling, trying to sleep. He thought he heard Castiel’s door open, but deliberately tried to drown it out. 

Then, when the light coming through his window had turned warmer, less harsh and bright, he roused himself. Enough was enough. He was being a wuss; he couldn’t let Castiel get to him like this. And, anyway, he’d have to interact with the sonuvabitch soon enough if he wanted to be a part of this robbery.

_Think about the money,_ he told himself, though the thought no longer felt so compelling.

Leaving his room, he glanced at Castiel’s door and considered knocking, just to show Castiel how unbothered he was. But he wasn’t ready for that just yet. Making his way downstairs, he went into the street and stood there for a moment on the wooden planks that made up the sidewalk around town, under the shade of the hotel’s canopy. The sun hovered over the false storefronts across the street, the structures casting shadows over the wagons and pedestrians passing in the street.

Then who should he see but Castiel. 

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He ducked his head, scraped his boot on the planks, and heard Castiel’s footsteps approach, crunching on the dirt then thumping on the boardwalk.

“You’re up.” His footsteps slowed, then stopped.

“Yeah, think I ate something bad, felt sick all morning.” Dean lifted his head to see if Castiel had accepted his lie. 

Castiel’s eyes were unreadable, but he nodded. “I was down at the telegram office. Found out that a Union Bank coach will be arriving tomorrow. Seems our best bet, I’m sure it’ll be transporting plenty of money.” 

He wasn’t wearing his, Jimmy’s, necklace. “Great,” Dean said, when Castiel stopped talking, hoping that was the appropriate reaction since he really hadn’t heard much of anything. “Well, I’m,” he waved his hand in a vague direction, “gonna go take a walk, I guess.” 

“Can I come with you?” Castiel asked quickly. 

Dean eyed him. His first instinct was to hurl out an emphatic “fuck no,” but he only hitched one shoulder in a shrug. “Suit yourself.” 

They walked down the street, shoulder to shoulder, and an anxiety rose in Dean that Castiel might mention last night. To lessen the chances of that happening, he started rambling about the fuckers he’d lost to in the gambling hall the night prior, what he was going to make back tonight. Castiel listened quietly and as they stepped off the boardwalk, their hands brushed together.

Dean yanked his hand away, his knuckles burning from the light touch. He was startled enough to lose his train of thought and fall silent. 

Their steps took them into a more residential area, less people populating the streets, less wagons and carts kicking up dirt into hazy clouds. 

“Thought you woulda come back last night,” Castiel said quietly, breaking the silence between them. Dean’s heart thudded and he ignored him, studied the houses lining the street. “You know it’s been a few days since we’ve been together—” 

Dean gritted his teeth. “And your point is?” He was well aware, didn’t need Castiel’s reminder. 

Castiel took a cursory glance around them, then grabbed Dean’s elbow and hauled him between two houses. 

“Cas,” Dean started, trailing off when Castiel stepped into his personal space, searching his face. Before he could form words or try to step away, Castiel kissed him, softer than he’d expected.

Almost instinctively, Dean lifted a hand to Castiel’s jaw, kissed him back. He felt Castiel’s hands at his waist, clutching his shirt, and heard the small noise Castiel made like a sigh. 

Coming to his senses, he broke apart from him, grabbed Castiel’s hands and tried to pull them away from his body. 

“Dean, please, I need you,” Castiel said, resisting him, stepping closer to try and kiss him again. 

At another time, those words would’ve struck fire under Dean’s boots, would've prompted him to drag Castiel to the nearest private corner to get off, but now they extinguished the faint stirrings of his arousal like cold water poured over his head. 

He shoved Castiel away. “Fuck, Cas, what if someone sees?” The street was still empty. Castiel stared at him and the vulnerable look in his eyes only reminded Dean of the night he’d resolved to forget. A memory rose in his mind of kissing Castiel’s fingertips, and hot shame gripped his insides. He started walking away. “Pull yourself together. Shit.” 

Hesitating upon reaching the wide dirt street, he deliberated whether to continue outward from the town’s main center or return to the hotel. He looked up at the orange-tinged sky, aware of Castiel coming up beside him. Supper would probably be served within the hour. He started walking back the way they’d come, deliberately ignoring the way his heart still thudded. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Castiel asked, hurrying to match his pace. 

He scoffed. “Why? Because I'm not in the mood for a fuck? Stranger things have happened.” 

“No, not because of that." Dean knew what Castiel was referring to. He kept looking forward, hoping Castiel couldn’t see the way his face flushed hot. “Listen, Dean, about last night, I don’t know what you thought I was saying, but—” 

“Fuck you.” Halting in his tracks, Dean wheeled on him. “You think everythin is about you, don’t you? Well, it ain’t. Can’t a man just get some peace and quiet, be alone for one day?” 

“Dammit, Dean, I’m just trying to explain—”

“Stop with the concerned act. It doesn’t suit you.” Castiel’s eyes narrowed and, turning, Dean walked away. 

“Go to hell, Dean Winchester!” Castiel called after him, loud enough that the residents in the homes lining the street would soon be looking out their windows. “I don’t know why I keep trying!” 

Dean flipped him off without bothering to turn around. 

•◊•◊•◊•

Castiel didn’t show up to the hotel supper, which was quite alright with Dean—preferred, actually. After eating, he went up to his room to grab money to make wagers with, then headed to the gambling hall he’d visited the night before. Castiel’s words flitted through his mind, a warning about becoming a familiar face around town, but he dismissed them. If Castiel had an argument to pick with him, he knew where to shove it. 

He was standing at the polished bar in the center of the lively hall, scanning the room to determine his best targets, when an all too familiar voice which never ceased to thrum under his skin broke through his thoughts. 

“Dean Winchester, what a surprise.” 

Turning, Dean found Castiel leaning on the bar to his right. Castiel couldn’t hide a guileful smile. “Never expected to see you here.”

“What the fuck are you doin here?” Dean demanded. 

Castiel shrugged. “Thought I’d try my hand at some faro.” 

Dean grabbed the glass the bartender slid to him. “You’re shit at faro.” He walked off in search for gullible players. Either Castiel knew him too well, knew which hall he’d choose, or he’d followed him here. Neither of those options was very appealing. 

Seating himself at a table for poker, he saw Castiel make his way across the hall and join a game of faro. Dean knew it was all a ruse. Castiel was only here for one thing. 

Sure enough, after their games ended, Castiel meandered to the table where Dean sat. “That’s my seat,” he said to a man trying to sit across from Dean.

“Says who?” the man retorted. “There a sign with your name on it?”

“Find another seat,” Castiel said, his smile not matching his tone.

“Do we have a problem here?” the dealer spoke up.

“No.” Castiel smiled pleasantly at the dealer, then at the man again. Dean caught the ominous look in his eyes, though, and the man must have too because, with a huff, he stalked off to find another table.

Castiel seated himself and grinned at Dean. Dean glared at him, but Castiel didn’t drop the charade of innocence, his blue eyes wide and bright under the light hanging over the table. 

The game began and Dean ignored him, or tried his best to do so, because every time he did glance at Castiel—frequently, since Castiel had positioned himself directly opposite—he felt his resolve wane. Castiel knew all the tricks, knew all the mannerisms that usually made Dean weak. He met Dean’s eyes with a steady gaze, plenty of undertone in the unwavering depths, ran his tongue over his bottom lip when he knew Dean was watching. Dean frowned at his cards, tried to ignore the way Castiel ran a hand through his hair, mussing then fixing the dark strands. It’d been too long since he’d run his fingers through those soft strands, tugging as Castiel pressed against him, took him into his mouth… 

Blinking, he focused on the game, the real game, with chips and wagers. He wasn’t going to let Castiel win, not in either game he was playing. 

All the same, despite his efforts to remain unfazed, by the time the game finished there was a dangerous heat simmering in the bottom of his stomach. Standing, Dean went to the bar for another drink. He didn’t know how well liquor would help, but he needed some distance from Castiel, at least. Right now, as the dealer shuffled and players switched between tables, he was rolling a smoke, and Dean wasn’t above admitting to himself the twist in his stomach at the nimble movement of Castiel’s long fingers. 

He motioned to the bartender for a refill and scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to focus on the real goal of tonight—staying away from Castiel, winning some money. 

_Why is that the goal?_ he wondered distantly. But he’d given in last night and look how that had turned out. 

Putting two bits down on the bar, he glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, Castiel was walking over. Swearing under his breath, Dean stared back down at his refilled glass. 

“Can’t you read signals?” he asked when Castiel stopped at his side. “Fuck off.” 

Castiel clasped his hands on the bar, an unlit cigarette held between his fingers. “You know we can’t stay out too late. We have to be ready early tomorrow morning.” 

“I’ll be ready.” 

“You’re not gonna fuck up this robbery for me, Dean.” Dean felt the heat of his gaze on the side of his face. “I need to know you’re committed.” 

“Jeez, Cas, lay off. I know what I gotta do.” 

“We can go back now.” Castiel unclasped his hands, touched Dean’s wrist with one finger. “Think we’ll have a better time back at the hotel than in here.” 

Dean watched with a distant interest, then pulled his hand away. “Don’t be so needy, Cas, it ain’t endearin.” 

This time, Castiel kept his distance, went to one table while Dean went to another. Freed from that distraction, though he was fairly certain he could feel Castiel’s eyes on him from across the room, Dean focused on the game he was playing, won big.

A lady with her hair pinned back in long blonde curls sat to his left, and she pulled in a big haul as well. Leaning back in her chair, she smiled sweetly at Dean and withdrew a cigarette case from her purse. “Do you happen to have a match?” she asked him.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his matchbook. She was probably a little older than him, judging from the thin lines around her eyes, but she was pretty enough—a slight upturn to her nose, a thin, silver necklace around her throat suggesting she was wealthy, though he would’ve guessed by her bets alone.

Placing the cigarette between her lips, too red to be natural, she leaned forward and Dean lit it for her, smelled the lavender from her hair. 

Leaning back, she inhaled, and Dean asked, “How’d you happen to get so good at this game?” 

She laughed, exhaling smoke. “Why? You want to learn some tricks?” She leaned towards him again conspiratorially, her dress rustling. “To tell the truth, it's all practice. I have nothing better to do than spend all my nights here. My husband is away so often, I get so bored.” 

“He away tonight?” 

“He is.” Her eyes were green, long, dark lashes framing them. 

“Hmm.” Dean let his eyes trail down over her figure, the dip of her collarbones, the plunge of her dress. He met her eyes again and the corner of her mouth lifted. The dealer started the game and she looked away. 

They played another game, Dean again getting lucky. He wasn’t cheating, for once, knowing that in a town this big there was more risk of getting caught—and greater consequences if he did. Last thing he needed was to get kicked out and make a scene and have to deal with Castiel’s bitching. 

The dealer shuffled and the woman—Carmen, Dean had learned—asked, “Enough for one night?” 

“Never enough.” He tapped the rim of his glass and looked up at her. “But I could be persuaded to leave.” 

Her mouth quirked into a smile. “Well, then.” She reached over and grazed the back of his hand with her fingers. “My place isn’t too far from here.” 

“What’re we doin still sittin here, then?” 

Standing, he helped Carmen slip on her coat and glanced to where he knew Castiel was watching. Sure enough, Castiel was staring him down with a particularly stony look on his face. Dean could only imagine how frustrated he was, and he felt a small satisfaction putting Castiel through the same torment the fucker had put him through in the past. He may have even flashed a grin at Castiel before following Carmen out of the hall, just to see the way he glowered.

It was laughable, really—and a little embarrassing—Dean thought as he walked with Carmen to her home, her hand on the crook of his arm. To think Castiel was the only one he’d slept with for a month. ‘Course he’d be feeling trapped—this was the longest he’d stuck around with someone since Lisa. But he realized that sentiment was concerningly similar to something Castiel had admitted.

He looked at Carmen, the tiny purple flowers on her hat wavering in a breeze. Enough of Castiel; he’d had enough. 

Carmen’s home was well-furnished, though he only got a glimpse since she led him up the stairs immediately upon entering the foyer. Tired of the preliminaries, Dean kissed her on the stairs and by the time they’d reached her bedroom, he’d shedded his coat and she’d lost her hat. 

She turned around in the dimly lit bedroom, lifting her hair so he could unfasten her dress. His fingers fumbled and she laughed, a low, tinkling sound. “Don’t rip it, it’s new.” 

He managed it and she slipped the fabric from her shoulders. She stepped out of the dress, a thin, white chemise the only thing now separating him from her body. 

Taking his hand, she led him to the bed and pulled him down on top of her. He ran his hands up her thighs as they kissed, the soft sighs she made heating his skin. He stripped off his shirt and she unbuttoned his pants, groped him over his clothes. 

His breath catching, he grabbed her under her thighs to pull her closer. He was sliding his hands under her chemise, cupping her breasts, her skin smooth and warm under his palms, when a knock on the door startled him. 

Carmen swore under her breath, then called, “Come in.”

“Wait, what—?” Dean started, pulling away. A maid came into the room, shutting the door softly behind her, and Dean hurriedly sat back, one hand over his crotch, looking from the maid to Carmen and back. 

“Miss, Mister Rourke is home.” 

“Damn!” Carmen dropped her head back on the pillow. “He said he wouldn’t return until early morning.” 

“You knew he was comin back?” Dean grabbed his shirt and scrambled off the bed. Last thing he needed was another pissed off husband catching him in bed with his wife. 

“I thought he’d be later!” She grabbed a robe hanging off her bedpost and pulled it on. The maid still stood in the doorway, apparently unnerved by Carmen’s activities. “Liza, bring Dean out through the back door. Tell Edward I’m in the bath.” 

Liza nodded and Dean finished buttoning his pants, not bothering to button his shirt all the way, kicking on his boots. 

“Go, quickly,” Carmen urged, handing him his coat and hat. She licked her thumb and wiped the corner of his mouth where her lipstick had transferred to his face. “And quietly.” 

“Alright, alright, I’m goin.” He followed Liza out the door and Carmen shut the bedroom door behind them. 

“This happen often?” he asked as Liza led him down a back staircase into the kitchen.

She nodded and opened a door leading outside. “Too often.” 

“Just my luck,” Dean muttered. He pulled on his coat and heard a man’s voice echo in the foyer. 

Liza pointed out the door, “If you go right and turn down the alleyway, you can reach the main street.” 

“Thanks,” Dean said begrudgingly and stepped out of the house into the cold. He buttoned his shirt as he walked down the road, swearing inwardly. Of course the first time he tried to fuck a woman in a month, his plans got spoiled. 

The moon hung too low in the sky. Much as he’d like to find a whorehouse, his arousal had already been spoiled by the abrupt interruption and the shock of stepping out into the cold night. Besides, he had a robbery to be alert for in the morning. He’d nearly forgotten about it, so intent on thwarting Castiel back at the gambling hall. 

Cursing, he headed back to the hotel. The lamps in the foyer and hallway were dim, his footsteps loud on the stairs. He pulled off his hat and tried to remember how much ammunition he had stored in his saddlebags. Perhaps he and Castiel should’ve prepared better for this robbery, but he wasn’t much for planning anyway; he and Castiel had robbed a stagecoach before, this wouldn’t be much different. He just wanted it all to be over.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he noticed someone sitting on the hallway floor, back bowed against the wall, arms crossed over his knees pulled up to his chest. 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered. He just couldn't get free, could he? 

Castiel lifted his head slowly at Dean’s approach, as if he’d been dozing. Then recognition dawned on his face and he pushed himself to his feet.

“What the fuck are you doin here?” Dean asked harshly.

“Needed to talk to you.” 

Dean fished in his pocket for his key and unlocked his door. Castiel followed him inside. “What now?” he asked, throwing his coat and hat on the bed. 

Castiel closed the door and stood by it. “Thought we should have some sort of plan for tomorrow.” 

Dean found his flask sitting on the washstand and unscrewed the top. “Alright, fine. Go ahead.” 

“Well, I haven’t exactly come up with one yet.”

Dean rolled his eyes and took a drink. “I’m tired, alright? So, come up with somethin or let me go to sleep.” 

Castiel took a step further into the room. “You got back kinda quick." Shrewd amusement crept onto his face. “That broad not do it for you?” 

“Fuck you.” Dean took another pull, admitted, “Her husband showed up before I barely got to undress her. You don’t have to look so smug about it.” 

Castiel shrugged, erasing the amusement from his face for nonchalance as he took another step towards Dean. “Why would I be smug? Why would I give a shit about what you do?” 

"No reason. You shouldn’t give a shit.”

“But you think that I do, don’t you?” Castiel pressed and Dean saw he’d been caught in a trap. “You thought I was gonna get jealous. Why? You feel an obligation to me?" 

“I don’t know what game you’re playin, but quit it.” He stayed where he was, watching as Castiel approached him. “I don’t feel any obligation. This ain’t some relationship we have. We ain’t tied to each other.” 

“But you’ve stuck with me just the same.” 

“So have you, fucker!” Dean gestured with his flask. “What’re you tryin to prove?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe that’s the point.” He was standing close now, and he touched Dean’s hip, his fingers light. “You tired of me already?” 

“Maybe.” Dean screwed the top onto his flask and set it on the washstand, perhaps to avoid Castiel’s eyes. He leaned back on the stand, crossing his arms, and looked at the way Castiel’s shirt parted at his collarbone. 

He felt Castiel’s hand slip to his waist and looked down at Castiel unbuttoning his pants, fingers rough against his thighs as he pulled them down, baring his skin to the cool air of the room. 

“Cas,” he started. Castiel hooked a finger under the waistband of Dean's drawers and grinned up at him slyly. Then, pulling them down, he knelt in front of him and ran his tongue up Dean’s thigh. 

Dean gripped the washstand behind him and Castiel’s hands gripped the back of his thighs, then his hips. He looked up at Dean and his eyes were soft, so very blue. Resisting touching his face, Dean entangled his fingers in Castiel's hair instead. He bit back a sound as Castiel kissed the inside of his thigh, then licked a streak up his half-hard cock. 

He’d ended up here again, despite his best efforts. He couldn’t get away—didn’t want to get away, if he told himself the truth. 

“Cas, stop it,” he managed. 

Castiel’s eyes flitted up to his, the slightest crease in his brow. Slowly, he pulled away and sat back on his heels. He stared up at Dean, his head tilted a little, his eyes scrutinizing, and Dean held his gaze with a sick feeling in his stomach. 

“You don’t really hate me, do you?” Castiel asked, never breaking eye contact. 

Dean felt his throat tighten and he looked away. He wouldn’t know how to answer even if he could speak. 

Castiel stood and Dean unclenched his grip from the washstand, buttoned up his pants. His heart was thudding, but Castiel wasn’t leaving. He stayed standing there, silent. 

“Out with it, alright?” Dean said, forcing himself to speak, to look at him. “Stop with your fuckin games. What’re you gettin at?” 

“I think you know,” Castiel replied quietly. 

“Just say it, Cas.” He was so tired. “I don’t wanna have to guess anymore.” 

“I don’t wanna split up tomorrow.” Castiel’s voice was even quieter now, but Dean felt every word crash in his head. 

“Fuck, Cas.” He pushed his hands to his temples, then threw them out to the sides. “I knew you were still on that shit! It’s not gonna happen! You, me, this shit doesn’t work.” 

“We’ve done well enough so far.” Castiel took a hesitant step forward. “I’m not asking for more than we’ve already had this past month.” 

Dean stepped away from the washstand and walked to the bed, away from Castiel. “But where’s it end, huh? We stick together and in another month, you’ll want more, you’ll want—” He cut himself off. Castiel only watched him silently. “You think either of us is cut out for some relationship? Maybe you, because you had that before, didn’t you? You had Jimmy, and wasn’t that nice, you two had the perfect fuckin life. I ain’t ever had luck like that before. In fact, I go out of my way to screw things up." 

His eyes fell on his bags and he went to them, found the smooth leather pouch enclosed within. He could make Castiel understand, could make Castiel see he had no clue what he was asking for, asking for more.

“You took a look through these letters?” he asked, holding the pouch up. He pulled out a page at random. “You read this one? A real nice one from Lisa, says she wishes I’d come back home, back to Lawrence. Didn’t know I was off fuckin a blonde whore over in Junction City. Or maybe this one.” 

He pulled out another page and looked it over. “This is a good one, here Sam says he’s doing well in Stanford, the bastard. He’s braggin because I told him to get lost, told him he’d never amount to anythin.” He dropped the pages on the bed and gestured to them. 

“Dean, I don’t want to read them.” There was something so pitiful about the way Castiel looked, his hair disheveled like he’d been out in the wind, concern in his eyes.

Dean looked back at the bed, at the pages littered with reminders of his every mistake. “No, go on. Reckon you should see what you’re tryin to get yourself into, askin me to stick around. Go on, read them.” 

Castiel crossed his arms. Stubborn as always. “You don’t really want me to read these. I don’t know what you’re trying to prove. So, you’ve done some fucked up things—” 

“The fuck do you know?” Dean exploded. “You think you know everythin about me?” Castiel’s expression hardened. “I broke Lisa’s heart! I went back to her when I shouldn’t have, when I should’ve just stayed away. I was dirt broke—so broke that I stole her ring, the engagement ring I saved up for and bought her, and I gambled with it. Don’t know why. Thought I could make twice the money and return it without her being any wiser. But I lost the wager. Her pa near killed me, seemed like the whole damn town found out, and Lisa called it quits. As she should’ve. Even Sam...” 

He pushed a hand through his hair and gestured to the pages, Sam’s letters. “I don’t know. He had to take care of himself. He wanted me to come with him, but I couldn’t see straight, couldn’t clear my head enough to have one rational thought. So I told him to get lost. You happy now? There, you know it all.”

“I’m sorry, Dean—” 

“Shut the fuck up, Cas!” He swiped the letters off the bed in a flurry, then grabbed the washstand and shoved it over. The porcelain bowl and pitcher crashed to the floor and Castiel took a step back. Getting close, Dean shoved his finger in his face. “I don’t need your pity! I deserve everythin I had comin to me—Lisa callin it quits, Sam leavin—” 

“That isn’t true—” 

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin about, so shut it!” He shoved past Castiel and started for the door. 

Castiel grabbed his arm, yanking him back around to face him. “Dean, stop it! Alright, fine! You’re an asshole, you’ll never change, you ruin everything you touch. Is that what you wanna hear?” 

“Cas, let go of me,” Dean said through gritted teeth. He tried to wrench his arm away, but Castiel tightened his grip. 

“All that talk, about moving on, I shoulda known it was bullshit. You haven’t moved on one bit. You’re still clinging to the past, all your damn mistakes.” He dug his fingers into Dean’s arm, his eyes intent, earnest. “It doesn’t have to be that way! I want a new life too!”

So, Dean had been right. Stowing away the necklace, wanting to stay together, there was a reason behind it all. “Don’t involve me, Cas,” he said. “Do whatever you gotta, but don’t you dare do it because of me.”

“You can’t hurt me more than I’ve been hurt already. I’m not scared of you, Dean. Don’t know why you’re so scared of yourself.”

“Cas, you son of a bitch...” He almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. That Castiel thought he knew a single thing about him, thought he could understand.

“If you just gave us half a chance—” 

“Then what?” Dean asked, holding his gaze. “What do you want, huh?” 

Castiel let go of his arm. “I don’t know.” 

There wasn’t any lie in his voice. Dean took a step back, Castiel’s eyes on him, body tense as if scared Dean would bolt. 

_Goddamn idiot,_ Dean thought, directed at himself. He saw now it was a wicked, cruel, dangerous game Castiel was playing. He hadn’t seen how dangerous before, how much he had at stake, how much he stood to lose. And Castiel was the cruelest player of all. Drew him in, enticed him, made him lose his head. Had the gall to stand before him now asking for something Dean knew he couldn’t give. 

“Please, just stay.” Castiel lifted his hands entreatingly. “Tonight.” 

"For what?” Dean shifted, his boots crunching on the shattered porcelain. 

“I don’t want you going off, getting drunk, spending half the night out, when we have to be off early.” 

Dean knew it was more than that, and a sinking realization of what he must do was settling in his chest, but he didn’t have the courage yet to do it. He nodded. 

Without discussion, Castiel stayed in Dean’s room instead of returning to his own. Dean turned down the lamp when they both silently got in bed. He remained propped up on his elbow as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The walls took shape first from the hazy, shifting darkness, then the overturned washstand.

Lying down on his back, he stared up at the ceiling. Castiel shifted and his heart leapt, but he forced himself to remain still, impassive. Then Castiel touched his arm and leaned over him, hardly more than a dark form, and pressed his lips to his, soft and hesitant.

No more than a light brush before he began to pull away, and Dean gave in. Reaching out, he put a hand to the back of Castiel’s neck, and kissed him back. 

Castiel made a small sound of surprise, and Dean knew it was cruel to give him hope, but any remorse he felt wasn’t enough to stop him. It settled with the rest always weighing on his chest. 

Pushing Castiel onto his back, he got on top of him, held his face in his hands, and kissed him bruisingly. He rolled his hips down and Castiel gasped. His fingers scrambled to clutch at Dean’s waist, his fingers digging into skin. 

Ducking his head, Dean kissed Castiel under his jaw, sucked at his neck. He ground his hips against Castiel’s again, and Castiel grasped his hair, his face, and pushed him back. 

“You don’t mean it,” he panted. Dean saw the glint of his eyes in the faint light from the window. 

“There’s nothin to mean, Cas.” He ran his thumb over the corner of Castiel’s mouth. “It’s just this. There isn’t anythin else.” 

He kissed Castiel again and when he tasted saltwater, he knew Castiel was crying. But Castiel didn’t speak, only wrapped his legs around Dean’s hips, pulled him closer.

When it was over, when he’d caught his breath and the room was quiet, the bed creaked softly in the stillness and he felt Castiel’s arm slide around his waist. Facing away, Dean could just make out the shape of the cracked water basin on the floor. His chest felt hollow, all passion and heat drained away. 

“I don’t want you to leave," Castiel whispered. 

His arm around Dean tightened almost imperceptibly, as if he feared Dean would try to flee. But Dean didn’t move, just stared ahead at the broken shards on the ground. Those words were enough to convince him. 

When he knew Castiel was asleep, he slid out from under his arm, grabbed his bags, and eased the door open. In the hallway, he pulled on his coat and boots. 

It was a cowardly thing to do, slipping off in secret, not even a note left behind, but he didn’t trust himself to look in Castiel’s eyes and tell him he was leaving. He hesitated for a moment, looking across the hallway at the door to Castiel’s room, then he stepped forward and tried the doorknob. Unlocked. 

_Cas, you stupid, trusting bastard._ He went inside and rooted through Castiel’s bags. He didn’t need the money, not truly, but it wasn’t about the money anyway. It was about Castiel waking up in the morning and seeing him gone. It was about Castiel realizing he had deserted him the night before the robbery, that he had stolen from him. After all that, Dean didn’t think even Castiel was foolish enough to go after him. 

As he stared at the moonlit land before him and marked the way Dusty’s hooves hit the ground in swift rhythm, he didn’t think of a thing. His mind was finally clear—of remorse, of doubt. There was plenty he wished he could feel, but he couldn’t make himself feel a thing.


	18. Bitter End

_Don't leave, don't cry_

_You're just another boy caught in the rye_

_Don't say goodbye_

_Head full of nothing and I'm wondering why_

_Turn to Hate -_ _Orville Peck_

_I can keep my cool at poker_

_But I'm a fool when love's at stake_

_Song for Sharon -_ _Joni Mitchell_

•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•◊•

“You’re standin in my spot.” 

The man Dean had addressed turned from his conversation with the bartender to glare at him. “What’d you say?” 

“I said—” Dean braced himself on the bartop, his head reeling a little. “This is my spot.” 

“This is a bar. You walked away, now I’m here.” The man turned his back to him and Dean looked around the sparsely filled saloon, checking to see if anyone else noticed the audacity of this fucker. No one was watching. 

Grabbing the man’s collar, Dean yanked him around. He drew his fist back for a punch, but, before he could swing, caught a right hook to the face. 

Stumbling back, he fell into another patron to the sounds of glass shattering and swearing. The man shoved him off and Dean hit the ground, his left knee catching the weight of his body with a jarring thud. He looked up just in time to catch a boot to the face that sent him sprawling backwards, pain tearing through his skull. The lamplight and shadows on the ceiling spun. Dean tried to rise, but found himself being dragged to the door. 

“Fuck you!” he yelled and struggled against the hands gripping his coat. Then the ceiling was a starry sky and his head smacked against hard-packed dirt. 

“You come back in here and I’ll call the sheriff!” someone yelled, and Dean groaned, rolled over onto his side. The saloon was a blurry, wavering smudge of orange light and he caught a silhouetted figure disappearing inside. 

Gingerly, Dean raised a hand to touch his face and felt a warm wetness. Deep red covered his fingertips when he drew his hand away. Dropping his head to the ground, he shut his eyes against the nausea washing over him. The metallic taste of his own blood didn’t help. 

His face throbbed and he wondered if his nose might be broken. He didn’t want to know how his already cracked ribs had fared, though he assumed not well by the piercing pain every time he took a breath. Slowly, he sat up, waited for his stomach to settle, then tried to stand. His legs buckled and he fell back onto his ass. 

“Alright then,” he muttered and resigned himself to crawling to the hitching post where Dusty stood. Or, trying to crawl. Even on all fours, the world was undulating like water, and he ended up crashing down onto his side. 

“Fuck,” he swore, gritty dirt pressing into his cheek. Then his stomach seized, and he propped himself up on an elbow in time to vomit on the ground rather than down the front of his shirt. He retched as his stomach cramped and forced the liquor he’d spent the better part of the day consuming out of him. Bile burned his throat and he swore, pounded his fist into the dirt, bent over again as his stomach clenched despite finding nothing else to release. 

His dry heaving finally stopped and he sucked in deep breaths of the night air, patting his coat, trying to find his flask. The smell of whiskey when he unscrewed it, though, was enough to set his stomach seizing again, and he coughed, dug his fingers into the dirt. His head felt like it might crack open and he slowly looked up, saw he was still within sight of the saloon windows. 

Not wanting to add public humiliation to his gripes and pains, he forced himself to crawl to the side of the saloon. A water trough stood by the hitching post and he reached inside, splashed water on his face, drank the gritty, musty water. 

A horse snorted and Dean flipped him off. “Sorry pal,” he muttered. “Think I need this more than you.” His whole body felt shaky so he dragged himself to the side of the saloon and sat in the shadows, resting his head on the outside wall. 

When was the last time he ate? Maybe a day ago. Maybe this morning. The days all blended together. He didn’t know how long it’d been since he left Bear River City. 

Wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, Dean tried to catch his breath, though thinking of Bear River City had set his heart pounding all over again. He was only about thirty miles away. If Castiel wanted to come after him, he could easily find him. If Dean was smart, he’d be halfway across the country by now. He would be in Stanford, seeking refuge with Sam. But that had never been the plan, had it? He’d known, leaving Castiel, that he wasn’t going to Stanford. It didn’t matter what Sam had said, it didn’t matter if he’d meant what he said—that he wanted Dean to come visit, live there. Look how things had ended up the last time they were together. No, Dean was better off on his own. 

Tilting his head back, Dean looked up at the stars. _I’ll get up soon,_ he told himself. Tomorrow he’d ride out, get some more miles in between him and Bear River City, get a hotel room, a bath, clean himself up, figure out what was next. 

“I’ll get up soon,” he said aloud and his words sounded quiet in the echo of laughter and music of the saloon, in the stillness of the street. 

•◊•◊•◊•

It had been nearly a week since Dean left Bear River City and Castiel. One whole week. He hadn’t had a plan, riding out at night with Castiel’s money, but he’d hoped future him would come up with something better than sitting in a stuffy saloon, holding a lousy hand during a crummy game of poker. 

The creak of the front door opening drew his eyes over the shoulders of the men crowded around the green-felted table. A short, bearded man palmed off his hat as he approached the bar, and Dean looked away. 

“That’s the game, folks,” a dark-eyed man said, laying down his cards. “Pay up.” 

Sighing, Dean tossed down his cards and rubbed a hand over his face—then regretted the action when every tender bruise flamed to life. His left side was still aching from the bar fight two nights ago, and he hadn’t gotten as far away from Bear River as he’d wanted. Riding all day seemed intolerable now and he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to quicken his pace. 

The dealer began dealing and Dean glanced up when the saloon doors opened again. A few women in low cut dresses walked inside. 

“You waitin for someone?” 

Dean snapped his attention to the man sitting to his left. “What? No.” He picked up his glass, face burning. He hadn’t noticed his attention to the people coming inside until now and it made him angry at himself. 

The man shifted in his chair. “Oh. Where you travelin to?”

“Nowhere,” Dean answered shortly, downing his glass. Then he thought better of it and looked more closely at the man. Dark brown eyes, hair that he kept pushing back but kept falling over his forehead. “Just tryin to find work. Thought I’d see what this place had to offer.” 

“Nothin is the answer,” the man said. “Less you were lookin for crap poker.” 

“Not really. Guess I’ll take what I can get, though.” 

The man laughed and stuck out his hand. “Lee.” 

“Dean.” 

Dean knew he really should leave and find a place to set up camp, since this settlement didn’t have anything in the way of a boarding house. But he stayed for another game, then for another drink, and more conversation with Lee, who, he found, could talk his ear off. It was easier that way, though, because Dean was having a hard time coming up with anything to say. It was almost a relief when, after various intimations and hesitations, he found himself on his knees behind the one-bit saloon trying to swallow down Lee’s cock. 

After a few harsh thrusts which set Dean’s eyes watering, Lee came and let go of his tight grip on Dean’s collar. Spitting Lee’s release, Dean pushed himself to his feet. Lee was breathing hard, leaning against the saloon’s exterior wall. He opened his eyes and something flickered in them when he met Dean’s.

“I need to…” Straightening, he stepped away from the wall and fumbled with his pants. “I need to go.” 

“But,” Dean started. 

“Sorry, I just—” Lee cut himself off and hurried away.

“Motherfucker,” Dean muttered. Perhaps he should’ve been angrier, should’ve yelled after Lee and bemoaned the fact he’d gone to his knees first. But, watching Lee cast furtive glances before disappearing around the corner of the saloon and out of sight, Dean only felt hollow. 

Sinking down to sit against the back wall, Dean drank from his flask and stared at the woods opposite. He wondered for the millionth time, probably, since leaving Bear River City, where Castiel was. What had he thought, earlier, watching the doors to the saloon? That Castiel would show up, barge in looking for him? What did Dean want exactly, a bullet through the heart? Because that’s all he was sure to get if he ever saw Castiel again. 

But Castiel had been angry at him before. Dean remembered, almost fondly, how fierce Castiel had acted when Dean dragged him into town to find out if there was a warrant for his arrest. How he’d cursed and griped and threatened Dean. And yet, somehow, they’d become partners, and Dean had grown to trust him. 

And Castiel had trusted him. A vice gripped Dean’s heart at the memory of Castiel’s pleading eyes the night he’d left. _I don’t want you to leave._

It was that trust, that desire, that made it so easy for Dean to betray him. He wished Castiel _would_ come and find him, get his revenge. He wished he could see him again, he wished he could feel his hands on him again— 

Blinking away the stinging in his eyes, Dean took another pull from his flask. No sense in those thoughts. He’d done what he had to. It was cruel, it was heartless, but it was the only thing to do. Castiel was delusional if he’d ever thought there could be anything more than a few passionate fucks between them.

•◊•◊•◊•

_Slowly waking, the first sensation he registered was_ _the light touch of fingers through his hair. He lay there, drowsy, attuned to, even enjoying, the gentle shift of Castiel’s fingers along his neck and scalp._

_Castiel’s hand drifted down to his bare back, fingers light upon his skin, and maybe his sleepy state of contentment was beginning to fade away to alertness, but he began to resent the easy, familiar way in which Castiel touched him. He stiffened and Castiel drew his hand away._

_So, Castiel had thought he was sleeping. A sharp pang went through him realizing Castiel would only touch him like that when he thought he wouldn’t know._

Bright sunlight compelled Dean to open his eyes from his half-asleep reverie. Clear blue sky, his bedroll, a long extinguished fire, and Dusty standing at a cluster of trees. 

He shut his eyes again, trying to pull back the memory. A morning in Evanston, when everything was still so new between them. New, and yet, natural, easy, the way they fell into each other’s arms, touched, kissed. 

Natural, easy, yet unlike anything he’d ever experienced with anyone before, not even Lisa. Every move Castiel made, every touch, was deeper, weightier with significance and meaning—made so by Castiel or existing only in Dean’s mind, he didn’t know. 

The memory was too tinged with regret. If he was to wake up to Castiel now…

_Have you ever been in love?_

Sitting up, Dean pulled on his boots, studied the sky. Another day of riding. Everything back to how it was before he met Castiel.

Angrily, he swiped at his eyes. Every time he closed his eyes, every time he blinked, he saw the look on Castiel’s face when Dean shoved him to the ground to avoid Sam knowing. Trying to bury the memory, he thought of the exhilaration in Castiel’s eyes as they raced away from the general store, thought of mornings beside him, of sharing a smoke, of the way his hands shook when he told Dean he wanted him to stay, his tears the night Dean left. Everyone left Castiel too. His own family rejected him, Jimmy was taken from him, and then Dean had abandoned him. How could he’ve done something so cruel when he knew how much it hurt to be left alone? 

Despite the way he’d treated Castiel, despite everything he had revealed about himself, Castiel had stayed, hadn’t wanted to leave him. Dean had found someone who’d stick by him, but he just couldn’t accept it.

“Son of a—” he started, then drew his knees up to his chest and buried his head in his crossed arms, let out the tears he didn’t know he had in him. 

To no avail, he tried to stifle his crying, the sobs tearing at his throat. He never should’ve left Castiel. He wanted to be with him, but he’d panicked and left him—because that’s what Dean Winchester did. Found someone, grew close to them, then tore it all to shreds. 

_I didn’t have a choice,_ he told himself, and he could almost believe it. 

•◊•◊•◊•

“Hey. Hey!” 

Dean blinked awake and sluggishly raised his head from his arms folded on the bar. The bartender stood across from him, a glare sharpening his features. 

“What?” Dean asked. 

“I’m closing.” The bartender snapped a towel over his shoulder. “Get lost.” 

Dean looked around the saloon and realized it was empty, the doors swinging shut after the last patron. Looking back down at his glass, he shrugged and emptied it, then stood, counting out coins. His head felt muddled and his money pouch felt lighter than usual, but he didn’t care. 

He threw the coins onto the bar and asked, “There a hotel ‘round here?” 

“To the right,” the bartender said, pointing in that direction.

Dean nodded and went outside into the frigid night air. Dusty lifted her head as he untied her from the saloon hitching post. “Sorry, girl,” he told her. He’d arrived in town—whichever town this was, he hadn’t been paying attention—earlier that evening and promptly acquainted himself with the saloon. Leading Dusty from the hitching post, he looked around for the town livery. 

After stabling Dusty, Dean located the hotel. The hotel clerk looked up from a book when Dean walked inside. “Room for one?” he asked and Dean nodded. 

As the clerk grabbed one of the keys hanging behind his desk, a newspaper on a nearby chair caught Dean's eye. Snatching it up, he read the headline: 

_Outlaw Caught, Sentenced to Hang._

The headline wasn’t a rare one, but a grim foreboding clutched his chest and he quickly scanned the text, key words floating out at him. 

_Bank robbery... Bear River City... caught by posse... charged... Castiel Milton._

“Sir?” 

Slowly, as if in a daze, Dean looked up at the hotel clerk. He was peering curiously at him, holding out the room key. 

“How old’s this paper?” Dean asked, pointing to it. 

“Arrived this morning.” He frowned. “Everything alright?” 

“I don’t…” Dean looked back at the paper, read the last sentence of the article over. _Sentenced to hang on October 19 in Winton._ The words thudded in his chest like he was reading his own death sentence. 

“Do you still want a room?” the clerk asked and Dean nodded mutely, set down the paper. It didn’t matter, it shouldn’t matter, he’d forfeited any right to care when he chose to leave Castiel. 

He took the key and nodded distractedly at the clerk’s directions to go down the hall. So, Castiel had gone ahead with the robbery. And gotten caught, the foolish son of a bitch. Why had he risked it? He knew it was a two-person job. Then again, Dean _had_ taken most of his money. Maybe he’d been desperate. 

His boots sunk into the thick carpet in the hallway. What room number had the clerk told him? He fiddled with the key in his hand, the metal numbers on the doors he passed meaning nothing to him. Maybe this had always been inevitable. Castiel had been flirting with death for a long time now. Maybe it was right that Dean had left. He might’ve been in Castiel’s shoes now. Sentenced to die in two days. 

The hallway tilted and Dean pressed a hand to the wall to stay upright. 

Castiel was going to die—because he had abandoned him. Gone forever, and Dean would never get to say goodbye, never get to see him again, never get to say he was sorry, so sorry. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, and his knees nearly buckled. He slumped against the wall and hot tears stung his eyes, tightened his throat. Castiel couldn’t die, not Castiel. If either of them, Dean deserved to die. But not Castiel—the man who’d suffered plenty and still found a way to heal, who saw something in him that Dean couldn’t see, didn’t understand. The man who had asked for nothing more than to stay by his side. And, suddenly, he knew. 

“I don’t need a room.”

The hotel clerk looked up as Dean walked back into the lobby. “Sorry, what—” 

Dean tossed the key onto the desk and grabbed the newspaper. “Something came up. There’s something I need to do.”

He was going to rescue Castiel. 

•◊•◊•◊•

After riding through the night, Dean reached Winton by late afternoon the next day. He hitched Dusty to a post outside the general store and scouted out the jail from across the street. Through the window, he could see two men talking inside, then the front door opened as one of them left. The other, presumably the sheriff, sat down at a desk and picked up a newspaper. Dean was going to need a diversion. 

Crossing the street, he looked around and waited for most of the few pedestrians and carts to pass, then fired his gun into the air three times, eliciting screams and shouts. He ducked into the alley next to the jail and crouched behind a crate, hoping he hadn’t been spotted. 

He heard the jail door open and footsteps hurry down the steps. “Stop your shooting!” the sheriff yelled. 

Dean checked over the crate, saw the coast was clear, and made a beeline for the jail. Bursting through the door, he ran through the front office into a hallway lined with two cells, one filled with boxes and crates, the other—Dean skidded to a stop. 

A familiar figure sat on a small cot inside the cell to his right, his head bowed. He raised his head and blue eyes met Dean’s. 

Castiel. 

“Dean?” Castiel rose to his feet, eyes wide. 

“I’m gonna get you out," Dean said hurriedly, searching for something to pick the cell lock with. He ran back to the office and searched the drawers, ripped a nail off the wall, came back and shoved it into the lock. 

Castiel held onto the cell bars. A purple and blue bruise covered one of his cheekbones. “You came back,” he stated flatly. 

“Yup.” Dean chanced a glance and saw Castiel watching him stonily. He lowered his eyes back to the lock, which was staying stubbornly locked. They could talk later, after he managed— 

Voices from outside grew louder, drawing his attention. The nail slipped from the lock and he swore. Then the front door to the jail slammed open and footsteps sounded inside. 

“You there! Stop!” 

Letting go of the lock, dropping the nail, Dean looked for a way to flee. There was nowhere to run. 

He turned around, raising his hands at the gun pointed at him by the sheriff. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel shake his head. 

“Tryin to stage a rescue, huh?” the sheriff asked, stepping further into the hallway. He glanced at Castiel. “Well, turns out I didn’t need you to find your partner after all.” 

Dean glanced at Castiel. “Sorry, what?” 

“Seems we’ve got ourselves a reputation,” Castiel said, looking a lot less concerned about the circumstances than Dean would’ve liked. Letting go of the cell bars, he dropped his hands to his sides.

“There’s a warrant out for the arrest of the both of ya,” the sheriff explained, reaching with one hand to his belt where a ring of keys hung. “Robbery of a general store, a coach—y’all got around. Milton here was pretty stubborn about not givin you up, but, wouldn't you know it, you showed up all on your own."

His stomach sinking, Dean looked at Castiel, but Castiel didn’t meet his eyes.

Chuckling, the sheriff motioned with his gun at Dean. "Reckon it's my lucky day. Looks like I’ll be hangin two outlaws tomorrow.” 


	19. Cards on the Table

“Cas, you stupid sonuvabitch.” Dean rubbed his hands over his face. The sheriff had thrown him into the cell with Castiel, and he sat now on the cot, Castiel leaning on the cell bars looking out. “You were gonna hang tomorrow because you wouldn’t tell them anythin about me?” 

Castiel glanced at him, then back out at the hallway. “Don’t be flattered. I have an aversion to talking to the law about anything. Just happened to be about you.” 

“And you went through with the robbery alone? You knew you didn’t have a chance.” 

“You took all my money. I was clean broke.” 

“I left you enough for a few days—” 

Castiel turned on him, eyes flashing anger. “Don’t pretend to give a shit about me, I don’t know why the fuck you’re even here. Thought you’d be halfway to Stanford by now.” 

“Think I deserve at least a 'thank you' for tryin to rescue you,” Dean shot back. 

“Oh, well then, thanks a lot, Winchester. Guess it’s the thought that counts, huh?” Castiel flipped him off. “Think you deserve that too and a whole lot more.” 

He turned his back to Dean again and Dean’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had flared. “I know, I know.” Hanging his head, he studied his hands. This wasn’t how this rescue was supposed to go. “Cas, you woulda died. For savin my ass.” 

“We’re both going to die now, ‘case you’ve forgotten.” Crossing his arms, one of his sleeves frayed, Castiel leaned on the bars to face Dean. “They were going to kill me anyway, even if I could tell them where you were. What I never should’ve done was rob that Union Bank coach alone. Doing so was almost as idiotic as thinking you’d hold up your end of the deal.” 

Dean nodded bitterly. Stubble covered Castiel's jaw and dark circles lay under his eyes. His shirt hung too loosely over his shoulders. The Castiel before him now reminded him of the Castiel he had first met, the starving thief stealing from him as he slept. 

“So, why the fuck _are_ you here?” Castiel pressed, his face still an unreadable, stony mask. “Because you’re ruining my last day alive.” 

Dean shook his head. “I don’t know.” Of all the mistakes he’d made, this was the worst: to have found someone like Castiel, to have received his friendship—whether deserved or not—and to have gambled it all away. 

“You don’t know? Oh, that’s nice. You thought you’d show up to torture me some more, just on some whim?” 

“Dammit Cas! Because I felt guilty, alright? Because I thought I could fix this somehow!” 

He met Castiel’s eyes, but found no sympathy within them. “There’s no fixing this,” Castiel said. 

“Don’t I know it.” He knew what Castiel meant— not just their immediate situation, their impending hanging, but something deeper, the rift between them. But he would try anyway. He’d come back, hadn’t he? Because even locked in a cell, he was so relieved to just be near Castiel again. 

“That night, when I left,” he tried, searching for the words. Castiel tilted his head ever so slightly, eyes narrowing. “You told me you wanted me to stay, told me you wanted to stay together.” 

Castiel scoffed and shook his head, turning back to the cell bars. 

“No, you’re right," Dean said. "There was no sense in it. Not with the way I’ve treated you. And I don’t know that there’s any more sense in how I’ve come to feel about you.” Castiel’s shoulders stiffened and Dean acknowledged, “Or maybe there is. You’re a much better man than I am.” 

“Well, I am.” Castiel still wouldn't look at him. “But I don’t know if I’d say by much.” 

Even when Castiel was furious at him, he was still defending him. Dean shifted on the cot, laced his fingers together, unlaced them, dropped his hands in his lap. “I don’t know how to say this, Cas. I’ve never been good at speakin of these things.” 

He fixed his eyes on a notch in the floor and admitted, “I never shoulda left you, and it took me leavin to realize it. And I reckon I do know why I came back, because… because I feel things towards you that I’ve never felt towards anyone else, and I knew it’d eat me alive if I never got a chance to tell you, if I never got a chance to see you again.” 

He didn’t meet Castiel’s eyes, just kept talking, hoping to delay Castiel’s response, stave off his own embarrassment and shame. “I think you feel it too. Because you asked me to stay. And I don’t know when it happened, why I feel this way… I don’t even know what to call it, how to explain—” Stunned by his own words, by what he was about to say, he cut himself off, his heart pounding as he stared at the space in between him and Castiel. 

“Dean,” Castiel said quietly, and, _God_ , Dean had missed hearing him say his name, but he shook his head. 

“Don’t say anythin, Cas. I ain’t askin for your forgiveness, I’m not askin for anythin from you.” 

“Will you shut up and listen?” Dean raised his head to see Castiel had turned to face him. He straightened off the cell bars. “You’ve said your piece, now it’s my turn.”

He sat down on the cot next to Dean and they both stared at the wooden floor boards. Dean shut his eyes for a long moment when their shoulders brushed. To be sitting so close to Castiel, after what felt like ages apart… It was worth being caught, thrown in jail, sentenced to death. 

“You’re right,” Castiel finally said, and Dean opened his eyes. “I asked you to stay because I started… feeling some way towards you and deep down I thought maybe if we stuck together, it might grow into something more, maybe you’d feel it too.” 

Dean felt Castiel’s eyes on him and forced himself to meet them. “I know why you left,” Castiel said and his eyes weren’t angry, just sad. “You were scared—but did you ever stop to think I might be scared too? You think I ever wanted to feel this way? After Jimmy, after everything?”

Staring back down at the floor, he shook his head. “But this is different, something I never felt towards Jimmy. You make me feel something desperate, something that takes over and I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.” He sighed, and Dean watched him. “But you make me feel like I’m not lost, like I’m not ruined. Like there’s hope for me, for us—I don’t know.” He shook his head. 

“You make me feel that way too,” Dean said quietly, his eyes roving over Castiel’s profile. Like maybe he wasn't so unlucky after all, like maybe he wasn't doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over, maybe he could change.

He fought for words. “You’re not ruined, Cas. You, you never back down from a fight, even when you know you’ll lose, you call me out on my bullshit even though I give you hell to pay for it, and even now you were protectin me despite all the fuckin shit I’ve done.” 

Castiel started shaking his head, and Dean said, “We’re all kinds of fucked up, Cas, I ain’t sayin we’re not. But… maybe we are better together than apart.” 

Looking at him, Castiel smiled a little, ruefully. “Why couldn’t you have realized that earlier, before you left? Before we got stuck in a cell together with eighteen hours left to live?” 

“I’m sorry, Castiel.” And he meant it, deeply, with every fiber of his being. Reaching out, he took Castiel’s hands in his and held onto them.

“We both got plenty to be sorry for,” Castiel said. He ran his thumb over Dean’s hand, the gentle touch easing a tenseness in Dean's shoulders. “Reckon knowing you’re about to die puts everything into perspective.” 

Dean nodded, staring down at their intertwined hands. “God, Cas, I missed you.” Lifting one of Castiel’s hands, he brought it to his lips and kissed his knuckles, torn and red. Castiel touched his cheek, then leaned forward and kissed him. 

A small sound, of surprise, of relief, escaped Dean’s throat and he brought his hands to Castiel’s jaw, deepened their kiss. His head swirled at the touch of Castiel’s hands on his chest, his neck, the desperate, insistent press of Castiel’s lips against his own. He’d missed Castiel so much with an ache he only now realized as it disappeared from his body, replaced with a warmth and emotion he had to voice. 

Clutching at Castiel, he broke their kiss. “If we’re gonna die tomorrow,” he said, catching his breath, “then I may as well say it.” He met Castiel’s eyes. “I think I love you.” 

Castiel held his gaze. “I think I love you too.”

Dean’s breath caught in his throat. Castiel kissed him again, long and slow, and, shutting his eyes, Dean thought he could accept his fate and die happy tomorrow. 

Then he knew he couldn’t give Castiel up, not yet. 

“We’re not gonna hang tomorrow,” he said, pulling away slightly. “I’m not losin you, not after I've come to my senses.” He ran his thumb along Castiel’s jawline, touched his lips. 

“Oh, I’m not letting you go, Dean Winchester,” Castiel said, and his smile set Dean smiling back.

Pulling Castiel to his chest, he buried his face in his neck, breathed in deeply. He shut his eyes tight against the tears of relief that sprung up when Castiel wrapped his arms around him, held him tightly. 

•◊•◊•◊•

The sound of voices and the jangling of keys woke Dean. He opened his eyes to rays of sunlight through the barred window in the cell, and the sight of Castiel pressed up against him on the narrow cot. 

Smiling, Dean pulled his hand from around Castiel’s waist to brush the backs of his fingers over Castiel’s cheek. He kissed him, Castiel’s mouth soft and relaxed from sleep, and Castiel’s eyelashes fluttered. His bright blue eyes opened to focus on Dean, his mouth stretching into a smile. 

At heavy footfalls, Dean looked up to see the sheriff stop outside their cell. “Well, isn’t this touchin? Star-crossed lovers.” The sheriff’s face turned to disgust. “Get up, the both of you, now.” 

“Don’t we get a last meal or somethin?” Dean asked as pushed back their thin blanket and sat up. “We can’t even sleep in on the day we’re gonna die?” 

“What about our last rites?” Castiel added, swinging his feet off the bed. 

“You’ll get to share your last words on the gallows,” another man said, coming up behind the sheriff with a coil of rope in his hands. “Lots more than you fuckers deserve.” 

Castiel was taking his time pulling on his boots and Dean peered through the bars to see if there was anyone else in the office. 

The sheriff banged on the cell bars. “Come on, hurry it up.” He pointed at Dean. “You first.” 

“And don’t try anything,” the other man, probably a deputy, said. He pointed to the gun on his hip and Dean held up his hands. With a glance at Castiel, who only nodded slightly, he walked into the hallway when the sheriff opened the cell door with a creak. 

He let the deputy tie his hands behind his back and glanced down the hallway to the empty office. So, only the sheriff and the deputy inside. As if reading his mind, Castiel stood and asked, “This a public hanging?” 

“Why?” the sheriff asked. “You want an audience?” 

“We’d love an audience,” Dean said. 

“Don’t worry.” The deputy tugged at the rope around Dean’s hands so it dug into his wrists. “Plenty of people out there to see you two hang.” 

Castiel and Dean met each other’s eyes and Dean knew what they were both thinking. If any shots rang out, there’d be a whole crowd rushing inside the jail. 

With Dean’s hands secured, the sheriff opened the cell door again and Castiel stepped out. There was a brief shuffle as the deputy pulled Castiel to the side and the sheriff turned his back on Dean to close the cell door.

In that instant, Dean shoved his shoulder into the sheriff’s back, sending him sprawling into the cell. At the same time, Castiel punched the deputy in the face, knocking him back against the cell bars. 

Sputtering curses, the sheriff reached for his gun, and Dean quickly stepped into the cell and kicked him in the face. The sheriff’s head snapped back against the floor, and Dean tried to kick him again. This time, though, the sheriff grabbed his foot and yanked him down. Dean hit the floor hard with a yell, his arms crushed beneath him. 

“You fuckin bastard,” the sheriff cursed, blood streaming from his nose. He grabbed at Dean and Dean thrashed around, kicking and trying to get his arms free. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel grappling with the deputy in the hallway. The deputy reached for his gun and Castiel yanked his arm away.

A flash of white momentarily blinded Dean when the sheriff slammed his fist into the side of his head. Stunned, Dean’s desperate attempts to flee were halted long enough for the sheriff to pull him into a chokehold.

“Cas!” he managed to call before the sheriff tightened his grip.

“You’re not gettin away that easy,” the sheriff growled. 

Dean grew dizzy as his breathing constricted. He tried to kick his way free, but the sheriff wrapped one leg around his, trapping him. Through darkening vision, he watched Castiel kick the deputy’s gun aside and catch a blow to the face that sent him reeling back. 

“Get away from him!” the sheriff yelled. His grip loosened and Dean gasped as air rushed into his lungs. Letting go of him with one arm, the sheriff reached for his gun in its holster on his hip.

Taking the opportunity, Dean threw his head back, connecting with the sheriff’s nose with a sickening crack. The sheriff fell back and Dean pushed himself to his feet. He stomped on the sheriff’s hand fumbling for his gun, then stepped on his throat, cutting off the man’s cry. 

He almost lost his balance when the sheriff tried to get away. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he threatened, catching himself and pushing down harder on the sheriff’s throat. The sheriff grasped at Dean’s boot frantically, letting out choked sounds. 

Taking his eyes off the sheriff momentarily, Dean glanced at the hallway. Castiel had the deputy by the collar and was slamming his face into the floor. The deputy was still putting up a fierce fight, threatening to buck Castiel off him. 

“Come on, Cas!” Dean urged, and Castiel slammed the deputy’s head into the ground one more time. This time, the deputy collapsed, limp. 

Castiel stood shakily and Dean looked back down at the sheriff, whose eyes were drooping. Pulling his boot away, Dean kicked the sheriff’s gun aside as Castiel came into the cell, training the deputy’s gun on the half-conscious man. 

“Where’s the money?” he asked, stooping to pull the sheriff to his feet. 

The sheriff sagged in Castiel's grip. “In my drawer,” he slurred. 

“What money?” Dean asked, still trying to catch his breath. He followed as Castiel half-dragged the sheriff to the desk in the office and tossed the keys on the wooden surface. 

“Open it,” Castiel demanded, keeping his gun pointed at the sheriff. He glanced at Dean. “Managed to steal some from the bank coach. Heard they were storing it in here until someone could return it to Bear River.”

“Well, look at you," Dean said admiringly, rolling his shoulders. His wrists were still tightly restrained. “You wanna free me now?” 

“Hold on." Blood trickled from a cut along Castiel's forehead and he wiped at it automatically, keeping an eye on the sheriff. 

Dean stepped to the window, careful to remain out of view. A crowd of people were gathered to the left, some taking impatient glances towards the jail. “We gotta hurry,” he warned.

Castiel nodded. The sheriff unlocked the drawer, pressing one hand to the desk’s surface to hold himself up. 

“Sit down,” Castiel ordered, motioning to the chair behind the desk and the sheriff sat heavily. Finding a knife, Castiel grabbed Dean’s arm to cut his bonds. “You alright?” 

His head and his side throbbed with every breath he took, but Dean pointed at the sheriff with his chin. “I had him pinned down before you stopped the deputy, even without the use of my hands.” 

“You got lucky. The deputy put up much more of a fight.” Finishing cutting Dean’s bonds, Castiel gave him a shove before going into the hallway to tie up the unconscious deputy. 

Grinning, Dean looked inside the desk drawer. His eyes widened and he whistled, scooping out a handful of coins from the small gunny sack. “Damn, Cas, you did well.” 

The sheriff sat slumped in his chair, his dazed eyes following Dean. “Thanks for holding this for us,” Dean told him with a grin, tying the bag closed. His and Castiel’s gun belts lay in the drawer too, and he handed Castiel’s his as he returned from the hallway. 

“Alright,” Castiel said, slinging his gun belt over his hips. “Livery's to the right. All those folks outside are gonna see us.” 

Dean grabbed the sheriff and yanked him to his feet. “Hopefully they don’t shoot, right, Sheriff?” 

Castiel picked up the money bag and holstered the deputy’s gun, cocking his own. “You first,” he said, motioning to the door.

After doing the same with his and the sheriff’s guns, Dean pulled the sheriff to the door, holding him in front of him. Before he opened the door, however, he glanced back at Castiel.

Castiel seemed to feel the same solemnity because he stepped forward and, grabbing the back of Dean’s neck, pulled him down to kiss him. 

Dean pressed into the kiss, tasted blood and sweat, then the sheriff swore at them and Dean broke away to smack the man aside the head. “I’ll shoot you myself,” he warned. 

Castiel stepped back, a small smile on his face. “Don’t die.” 

“Same goes for you,” Dean said. 

Easing the front door open, he stepped outside. The platform for the gallows towered in the street, casting long, dark shadows on the dirt. The moment Dean stepped into the sun, the crowd of expectant townsfolk began to turn and look at the jail. Then came gasps and hands reaching for guns. 

“Let us go and we won’t shoot,” Dean called, holding his gun up. He looked back at Castiel standing in the doorway. “Go.” 

Castiel left the jail, heading away from the crowds to the livery at the end of the street. Dean followed, pulling the sheriff along in between him and the crowds. 

They’d only walked a few feet before a bullet struck an awning near their heads and they ducked. The sheriff swore at the shooter and, without hesitation, Castiel fired back. 

“Alright, hurry, hurry,” Dean said, starting to run. 

They raced down the street, Dean still pulling the sheriff in tow though it seemed the townspeople would rather have the honor of capturing him and Castiel than protect their sheriff. 

Bullets splintered the houses and shops to their right and kicked up puffs of dirt at their feet. The sheriff yelled and stumbled, and Dean gave up. Letting go of the man's arm, he shoved him away and shot him in the head. The sheriff crumpled to the ground. 

Turning, Dean ran faster, feeling even more exposed now without the sheriff acting as a shield. Castiel shot the liveryman and they jumped a fence, ran into the stables. 

“They’re coming after us,” Dean said after a quick glance behind him. “What are you doin?”

Castiel had grabbed a lantern off the wall and now he chucked it into a pile of hay. “Creating a diversion.” He shot at the lantern and it burst into flames, catching the dry hay and licking up the walls of the stable.

“Shit, alright,” Dean said, opening all the stalls to free the horses as he tried to find Dusty. “Those bastards didn’t take care of her?” he swore, spotting her in a stall. She was still saddled from yesterday when he’d been expecting a quick getaway. He mounted, coughing at the thick, grey smoke already choking the air. 

“Where’s my saddle?” Castiel asked, looking around as he freed Halo—unsaddled and unbridled—from a stall. He tossed Dean the money bag and Dean shoved it into his saddlebags. 

“We ain’t got time, Cas,” he said, extending his hand to pull Castiel up onto Dusty. The other horses in the stable ran past, fleeing from the fire which was growing with frightening speed. Castiel swung up behind him and slapped Halo’s rump, trying to push him towards the back door. 

The yells grew louder from the direction they’d run from and Dean spurred Dusty. They raced out of the stable onto a wide plane and the town fell away. Shots rang out behind them, spattering in the dirt at Dusty and Halo’s hooves.

Glancing behind them, Dean saw flames and smoke engulfing the livery stables. Some townspeople ran after the scattering horses, others yelled for water. A few riders were giving chase to him and Castiel.

“Which way?” Dean called, and Castiel pointed to the line of trees ahead of them. 

“We can lose them in there!” he called. Drawing his gun, he shot at their pursuers and Dean whooped, watching a rider fall from his horse. Castiel grinned. 

More bullets smacked the ground at Dusty’s hooves, and Dean’s hat whipped aside in the wind, tumbling to the ground. He urged Dusty faster. The trees ahead of them seemed to retreat the longer they rode and the riders behind them only grew closer. 

Castiel’s gun clicked empty and he swore. Reaching into Dean’s holster, he pulled out Dean’s gun and continued firing at the chasing riders. 

Dean focused on the trees ahead, where they might be able to lose their pursuers. Or might not. The thick woods might only slow Dusty down. And once they entered the trees, where would they head? Even if they got away now, a posse was sure to be on their tails soon. 

Castiel’s arm tightened around his waist, grounding him to the present, and he felt an ache in his chest, not physical, but from some deep emotion welling up inside him. If it had to end, he couldn’t ask for more. 

He knew what to call it, the feeling rising in his chest. Maybe he’d never felt it before, maybe that’s why it took him so long to know.

“Cas!” he called and Castiel leaned into him, his chin pressed to his shoulder. “I don’t think, I know," Dean said. “I love you.”

The wind snatched the words out of his mouth, but Castiel must have heard because he tightened his grip around Dean’s waist. And as they raced across the dusty land for their lives, horses' hooves pounding and gunshots cracking, Dean caught his reply in the rushing wind, “I know I love you too.”


	20. Epilogue

~ 1 month later ~

“Here we go,” Dean announced, stepping inside the dark cabin. “Empty for the takin.” 

“Thank fucking goodness,” Castiel complained. He dropped his saddlebags on the dirt floor and brushed snow off his coat. “If we had to ride for any longer…”

Dean rummaged in his coat pockets for his matchbook. “I would’ve had to pick you up from the ground. You were fallin asleep in your saddle.” His eyes strained in the gloom and spotted a candle sitting on a table. 

“I was not!” Castiel protested with a yawn, shutting the door behind them against a gust of swirling snow. In the near darkness, Dean lit the candle, the tiny flame illuminating the one-room cabin they’d stumbled upon nestled in a canyon ridge. The interior was cramped with a fireplace, a table and bench seat underneath a shuttered window, and a narrow bed against the far wall.

Taking off his hat, Castiel sat down on the bed and frowned. “This isn’t very comfortable at all.”

“Figures.” Dean looked in the fireplace. Crumbled, burnt remnants of logs. He turned to see Castiel already stretching out on the mattress and rolled his eyes. “Fine, get some sleep. I’ll go back outside in the freezin snow, find the woodpile, start a fire. Lazy bastard.” He heard Castiel’s quiet snicker as he turned to the door. 

By the time he came back inside, Castiel was wrapped up in the blankets, his eyes closed. They opened slowly as Dean shut the door with his foot and dumped the wood he’d found on the floor.

“Did I ever tell you I like having you around?” Castiel asked, his voice thick with sleepiness.

Dean grinned as he stacked the logs in the fireplace, but he only said, “And did I ever tell you that I tolerate havin you around?”

“Just tolerate?”

“Mhm.” He struck a match and it flared to life. When the fire was burning bright and his hands had somewhat thawed, he crawled into bed next to Castiel, feeling encumbered in the coat and clothes he kept on to ward off the still freezing air. 

“First thing I’m gonna do when we reach Stanford is find a hotel with a real bed,” he grumbled as he lay down, his boots hanging off the edge. “Move over, Cas.” He pulled at the pillow Castiel was resting on to make room for his head. 

Castiel let out a noise of protest before settling down again on his half of the pillow. “And then go to a gambling hall and lose all our money,” he said, his voice muffled in the blankets.

“Hey, last night was just a fluke.” Dean wrapped his arm around Castiel and drew him closer until his chest was pressed against Castiel’s back. “I’ll win plenty in Stanford. And then we can keep travelin, buy some land—we’ll figure it out.” They’d already come up with a million and one ideas, planning as they leisurely rode south. It was exhilarating, their future together.

“I like the sound of that,” Castiel yawned. Shifting, he laced his fingers with Dean’s around his waist. 

“Shit, Cas, your hands are freezing.” Dean cupped them in his own, then brought one to his lips and kissed Castiel’s fingertips. Castiel let out a content sigh, and Dean settled back on the pillow, watched the firelight dance on the splintered cabin walls. Sleep tugged at his eyelids as the warmth of the fire and Castiel's body lulled him to rest.

“I love you,” he heard Castiel say, the words soft in the frigid air and low howl of the wind outside. 

“I love you too,” Dean whispered back. 

When he woke he was warm, still pressed against Castiel’s back. Burying his face in Castiel’s neck, he breathed in his scent. He could feel Castiel’s pulse against his lips, a silent vibration thrumming under his skin, proof Dean wasn't dreaming. He really was this lucky. 

“Love you,” he pressed against the warm skin of Castiel’s neck. He couldn’t seem to say it enough.

The room was cold outside the blankets, but he pushed them aside to stoke the waning fire, careful not to disturb Castiel. Crouching down, he piled more logs onto the glowing coals, struck another match. The fire slowly crackled back to life, warming his face. 

He heard Castiel shift, the bed creaking, and looked up to see Castiel roll over and extend his hand out from under the covers. His fingertips ghosted Dean’s shoulder. 

“Mornin sunshine,” Dean said.

“Don’t go,” Castiel spoke into the pillow, his eyes still closed. “It’s cold.”

Smiling, Dean climbed back in bed. Castiel blinked, his eyelids heavy over his eyes, as Dean got on top of him and kissed him. “I ain’t goin anywhere,” he said, their cold noses brushing. “I’m here to stay.”

Castiel smiled, his eyes falling shut again. Pulling the blankets up over them, Dean lay back down. Castiel wrapped his arm around his waist and slung a leg over his. 

Taking his hand, Dean drew it to his chest and pressed Castiel's palm over his heart so Castiel could feel his heartbeat. A wordless reassurance that this was real; they were together. In the quiet warmth of the cabin, wind whistling through the cracks in the walls, Castiel’s fingers intertwined in his, their bodies entangled, he’d never been so happy. 

~ THE END ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _of course_ I had to end this story with the fluffiest little scene :)
> 
> this story is the love of my life, and while i'm sad that it's finished, i'm also so happy i get to share it. i would absolutely love to hear your thoughts in the comments, and please send love to princessjimmynovak for the [INCREDIBLE art](https://princessjimmynovak.tumblr.com/post/633252835882041344/i-love-a-good-au-so-i-jumped-at-the-chance-to)! seriously, i don't think i'll ever be over this artwork, i adore it.
> 
> you can find my tumblr [here](https://expectingtofly.tumblr.com/). i always have fics in the works, usually of the fluffy destiel nature (though who knows what i'll come up with for my next long fic), so stay tuned :) 
> 
> and thank you so so much for reading <3


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